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7 ^ 6 ^~ &' 

STORIES 


FROM 


OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


BY 

ABBY SAGE RICHARDSON. 



NEW YORK : 

PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON. 
<E a in I) r t tr g e : asUbersflre IPress. 

1871 . 


Tz*- 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
Hurd and Houghton, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE : 
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 


H. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 



PEEFACE. 

TO THE GENTLE READER. 

QOMETHING over twenty years ago, in a 
dusty garret filled with trunks, boxes, old 
articles of furniture, and all the other lumber 
in which our country garrets abound, a little 
girl was spending a rainy morning. I remem- 
ber the child very well. She was just about 
eight years old, and had tangled masses of 
curly yellow hair, and big eyes always hungry 
for “ something to read.” For in those days 
— two or three years more than twenty, — 
how very long ago that is ! — there were not 
so many children’s books as now. No chil- 
dren’s magazines except “ Old Merry’s Mu- 
seum,” and very few of the beautiful books in 
shining covers which are now written and 
printed expressly for the young folks. 

The only books this little girl owned, and 


IV 


PREFACE. 


which she had read and reread, were three in 
number : the first, quite a large volume in 
leather covers, which had been her grand- 
mother’s ; the others, a red-bound book with 
one cover torn off, and two little rusty, dingy 
looking duodecimos, which any child nowadays 
would turn up her nose at sight of. These 
three books were the Bible, the Pilgrim’s 
Progress, and Arabian Nights’ Entertainment. 
Of the Bible she only cared to read the Old 
Testament. That she had read over and over, 
investing it meanwhile with the oriental land-* 
scape and atmosphere which she borrowed from 
the Arabian Nights, till she knew all its stories 
by heart. 

I tell you all this that you may understand 
what a treasure this little girl found in rummag- 
ing the garret on this eventful rainy morning. 
For in an old chest, from way down at the bot- 
tom, she suddenly pulled out, as Jack Horner 
pulled the plum out of his Christmas pie, two lit- 
tle purple-covered books. They were &o small 
— only about four inches long, three inches 
wide, and an inch thick — that from their size 
she instantly concluded they must be real “ cliil- 


PREFACE. 


V 


dren’s books.” She opened one of the tiny 
treasures, which was in print almost small 
enough to be legible only by aid of the micro- 
scope, and read on the title-page : 44 The 

W orks of William Shakespeare, in 6 vols*. — 
Yol. IV.” 

I grieve to say that the child did not con- 
sult anybody about the propriety of reading 
these books. Only a little while before, her 
papa had taken away from her a delightful 
novel, whose heroine (her name was either 
Melissa or Amanda, or something of that 
kind) had just got into the most dangerous part 
of the book. Her father had said it was not 
a fit story for a small girl to read, and she 
had shed some bitter tears over her loss, had 
thought her papa very cruel, and mentally 
resolved to read the rest of the story as soon 
as she was grown up. Alas ! like many other 
things we mean to do some time, the resolution 
never was fulfilled ; and though the little girl 
is now a woman, she does not know to this 
day what became of the forlorn Amanda, or 
Melissa, whose fortunes she left in such desper- 
ate condition. 


VI 


PREFACE. 


Remembering her latest loss, therefore, the 
child concluded that at present no one should 
share the secret of the Shakespeare books. 
So she devised many hiding-places for them, 
and used to read them at night, and in the 
gray dawn of morning in her little bed, and 
out of school hours in the broad sunny win- 
dow-seat in the attic, where she had a secure 
retreat. 

I cannot tell you how eagerly this little girl 
devoured these books. No child of the present 
age would understand her delight, they have 
such plenty of new books, such a surfeit of 
literature. But to her, these two volumes 
were better than Aladdin’s lamp or his ring. 
One of them contained “ Macbeth,” “ Winter’s 
Tale,” and “ The Merchant of Venice ; ” the 
other, “ Romeo and Juliet ” and “ King Lear.” 
There were other plays beside, but these were 
the ones which interested her, and she forgets 
what others were there. The dear little books 
have been lost long ago, the girl is now a 
grown woman, but years after, when she had 
a boy who had eyes and ears hungry for sto- 
ries too, she used to tell this eager little lis- 


PREFACE. 


Vll 


tener the story of “ Lear and his Daughters,” 
or the story of “ Hermione and the Statue, 
and many others which were locked up in the 
book and volume of her memory. 

Afterwards she wrote these stories down, and 
added others to them almost as dear to her as 
the earlier ones she read, and so made the little 
book of Stories from Old English Poetry which 
you hold in your hand. If you learn to love 
the tales, and the poets who made them, half 
as well as she does, — through the imperfect 
medium in which she gives them to you, — 
the writer will be very proud and happy in- 
deed. 



CONTENTS. 


Geoffrey Chaucer 1 

The Two Noble Kinsmen 5 

The Pious Constance 20 

The Knight’s Dilemma 33 

Three Unknown Poets 41 

The Story of Candace 57 

Spenser . 65 

Adventures of the Fair Florimel .... 68 

Campaspe and the Painter 95 

Friar Bacon’s Brass Head 107 

Margaret, the Fair Maid of Fresingfield . . 122 

Sketch of William Shakespeare .... 138 

The Story of Perdita 157 

The Story of King Lear and iiis Three Daughters 176 
The Witty Portia; or, The Three Caskets . .* 189 

The Story of Rosalind; or, As You Like It . . 211 

Macbeth, King of Scotland 227 

The Wonderful Adventures of Pericles, Prince of 


Tyre 245 

The Tempest 270 




STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 

have heard of Dr. Samuel Johnson, 
have you not? He who made a great 
English dictionary, who was famous for saying 
wise things, and was in his way a very great 
man. One of his sayings was, that a poet ought 
to know everything and to have seen everything. 
And this seems to be proved true by the fact 
that most of the really wonderful poets have 
been men of very wide experience in life, or else 
they observed so closely and were gifted with 
such clear insight, that all things of which they 
wrote were as real to them as if they were a 
part of them. 

So Shakespeare has been thought to be a 
school-teacher, a lawyer, a doctor, a soldier, as 
well as an actor and manager of a theatre. And 
Chaucer, about whom I wish to tell you, has been 
thought just such another Jack-at-all -trades. 

Geoffrey Chaucer, who is called the “ Father 
l 


2 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


of English poetry,” — think what a title that is 
to wear for four centuries and a half! — was born 
in London in 1328 — nearly two hundred and 
forty years before Shakespeare, and over one 
hundred and fifty years before Columbus discov- 
ered this Continent. It is so long ago that all 
things about him are uncertain, except that he 
was a great poet. That will stand, I hope, while 
the English language lasts. Like Shakespeare, 
he is said to have studied law, and been a sol- 
dier, but the first we really know of him he is 
a courtier in the palace of King Edward III. 

He was in great favor there, and a daily pitcher 
of wine used to be sent him from the king’s own 
table, — a gift which was afterwards changed into 
a pension. So from this mark of the king’s favor 
he has sometimes been called the first poet-lau- 
reate of England. 

Several times Edward sent him to the Conti- 
nent on political errands, and there he had many 
new opportunities to learn and observe things. 

During Edward’s reign he became attached 
to J ohn of Gaunt, — whom Shakespeare calls 
“Time-honored Lancaster,” — and, by his ad- 
vice, the poet married a lady of Hainault, a 
province in Belgium. After Chaucer’s mar- 
riage, John of Gaunt himself married an older 
sister of the same family. So the poet and his 
patron were brothers-in-law. 


GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 


3 


After Edward came Richard II., and in his 
reign were hot times. Wyclyfe, the great 
preacher, who fought stoutly against the bad 
and ignorant priests, and tried hard to make the 
Church bettef, began his career. John of 
Gaunt favored this great reformer, and so Chau- 
cer did also. So the poet got in disgrace with 
the court. He fled to Hainault, where his wife’s 
family lived, and was very kind to his fellow- 
countrymen there, who were also obliged to flee 
on account of these quarrels about religion. 
Wyclyfe was a very noble, fearless man, and 
it is one of the best things we know of Chaucer 
that he was on his side. 

After a while he came back to England — a 
little too soon, however, for he was arrested and 
stripped of his revenue. Then he went to live 
in retirement on the estate of John of Gaunt, 
and here, when nearly sixty, he wrote “ The 
Canterbury Tales,” his greatest work. 

These were the days of romance, of crusades, 
and tourneys, and Chaucer had plenty of mate- 
rial for stories. And at his ripe age he brought 
ripe learning and ripe experience to his work. 

After a while Henry Bolingbroke, the son of 
John of Gaunt, became king. This was the 
“ cankered Bolingbroke,” whom Hotspur quar- 
reled with. Through his accession to the throne 
Chaucer came into the sunshine of royal favor * 


4 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

again. But he was quite an old man at this 
time. The last we find of him he hired a house 
in the garden of Westminster Abbey, in which 
he lived till his death. Then he was buried in 
the great Abbey, the very first of a long line 
of poets who sleep there, in what is called the 
“ Poets’ Corner ” of the grand old church. 

Chaucer is said to have been very handsome, 
and I fancy it is true, since his beautiful works 
must have made him beautiful. But the only 
description I find of him does not read very flat- 
teringly. This is it : — 

“ His stature was not very tall ; 

Lean he was, his legs were small; 

Hosed with a stock of red, 

A buttoned bonnet on his head.” 

His poetry is old-fashioned now — much of it 
is unfit to read. But in many of his verses, espe- 
cially when he describes nature, we seem to see 
the daisy or the dewy grass, or smell the odor of 
new-mown hay in country pastures, and hear the 
cattle lowing, and feel the fresh air blowing from 
woods and fields. 

The stories which I shall tell you from Chau- 
cer, are all taken from “ The Canterbury Tales.” 
Each story is supposed to be related by one of 
a party of travellers who are journeying to- 
gether. The one which follows is told by a 
knight, and is the story of the “ Two Noble 
Kinsmen.” 



THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 

(FROM THE KNIGHT’S TALE, BV CHAUCER.) 

A FTER Theseus, duke of Athens, had mar- 
ried Hypolita, the fair and brave queen of 
the Amazons, all Greece dwelt for a time in 
peace and happiness. Hypolita herself shone in 
peace no less than in war, and was a noble orna- 
ment in the palace of the duke. 

But Theseus was not a warrior to remain long 
idle. Very shortly after he had safely bestowed 
on his queen the half of his royal throne, chiv- 
alry called him to Thebes to avenge the wrongs 
some fair women had suffered at the hands of the 
Theban king. And after devastating that city, 
and slaying King Creon in honorable battle, the 
duke came back to Greece, again a conqueror. 

Then the merry-making that was seen in 
Athens cannot now be told ; nor how the queen 
Hypolita proudly greeted her victorious lord — 
nor how the ladies of *the court vied to do him 
honor. All this you must fancy while you hear 
of sadder things. 

In Thebes had lived two noble kinsmen, cous- 


6 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

ins by birth, named Palamon and Arcite. These 
two, covered with wounds on the battle-field, had 
Theseus taken prisoner, and nursing their hurts 
carefully, had cured them, so they were able to 
be brought to Athens in the train of the con- 
queror. Now in one prison were the two shut 
up together to bewail the cruel stars which 
had spared their lives only that they might live 
in such misery. 

The prison tower in which they were kept, 
overlooked the garden of the palace. Through 
the bars the sunlight slanted in, and the songs 
of the birds outside mocked them with thoughts 
of freedom. Sometimes, by standing on tiptoe, 
they caught glimpses of the garden paths, and 
saw where the many colored flowers blossomed 
below. 

One beautiful May morning, sweet Lady Em- 
elie, the youngest sister of Hypolita, who was like 
the queen in fairness as the soft evening star is 
like the full-orbed moon, must needs go walking 
in this very garden to pick flowers for a May- 
day wreath. Herself fairer than May, and 
sweeter than the roses, which were glad to bor- 
row their red from her cheeks, she sang, as she 
wove her garland, a little song which fell like a 
bird’s from her fair throat. 

While she sang thus, Palamon, straining to 
catch a glimpse of the sun through his prison 








T11E TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. Page 7 











THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 


T 


bars, beheld her in the garden path. At that 
moment he uttered a cry as if some sharp pain 
had stabbed him suddenly. 

“ What ails thee, dear cousin ? ” asked Arcite, 
coming hurriedly to his side. 

“ Indeed I know not if I dream, but something 
walks in the garden below ; whether she is maid 
or a goddess I cannot tell, but I think none but 
Venus could so walk, or look thus.” 

Then, sinking on his knees, Palamon prayed, 
— “ Sweet goddess (if it be indeed thy divine 
self I have seen), help us, thy servants, to escape 
these prison bars and find a way out of our cap- 
tivity.” 

Burning with curiosity, Arcite meanwhile 
raised himself to the gratings and beheld Erne- 
lie. But his eye - , less reverent than Palamon’s, 
knew her at once for a mortal like himself. 

“ O lovely maiden,” he cried piteously, 
“ either I must have thy grace, or I am dead 
henceforth. All my life and all the deeds that 
my knighthood may yet be found worthy of, I 
lay *at thy feet.” 

At this Palamon started up in anger. 

“ What dost thou say, Arcite ? ” he ques- 
tioned. “ The lady is my love. I saw her 
first.” 

“ What of that ? ” rejoined Arcite. “ Are 
not my eyes free to love her too ? ” 


8 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

“No honorable knight loves the lady of his 
sworn brother,” cried Palamon, fiercely. 

“ But you adored her as a goddess,” said Ar- 
cite ; “ I loved her at once as a fair woman, and 
by all the stars and all the laws of knighthood, I 
will love her with all my heart till I die.” 

On this the quarrel between these two cous- 
ins, who had been so dear to each other that no 
manly friendship had ever exceeded theirs, be- 
came so hot, that, if it had not been for their 
unarmed condition, they would have fought till 
one was killed. And all the time the sweet 
Lady Emelie walked and sang in the garden be- 
low, and heard nothing and dreamed not of the 
two knights who quarreled for her sweet sake 
over her head. 

From this time forth, day after day, month 
after month, the two cousins had no other hope 
than to espy Emelie in the garden under their 
prison tower. And still they contended with 
each other which had the right to love her, and 
each claimed her as his own lady. 

Judge how mad this strife was, when both 
were locked in walls so thick that no hope of es- 
cape could pierce them. But fortune changed a 
little for one of the kinsmen. A noble duke, 
who was a friend to Theseus, had known and 
loved Arcite in Thebes. He interceded for his 
release, and after a time Theseus let him go, on 


THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 


9 


condition that he should instantly leave Athens, 
and never agam set foot there on pain of death. 
Then it was hard to tell which of the two kins- 
men made the most moan, — Arcite, that he must 
quit the prison where he might still behold Eme- 
lie, and depart her country forever, or Palamon, 
that he must remain alone behind his bars while 
his cousin went free. 

Arcite left Athens and went straight to 
Thebes. But now Thebes was a prison, and lib- 
erty was bondage, because he was shut out from 
the sight of Emelie. He grieved so over the 
thought that he might never see her more, that 
his form became wasted, his eyes sunken and 
haggard, his locks hung disheveled, and his 
whole countenance was changed. In this plight 
it occurred to him that he was so altered that 
no one would recognize him if he should go to 
Athens in some other guise, and by that means 
see Emelie again. 

So he put off his knightly attire, and wearing 
the coarser dress of a squire, he went to Athens. 
Fortune so favored him that he got a place in 
the duke’s palace, and had leave to attend Eme- 
lie. He was known as Philostrate, and because 
his manners and bearing were so far above his 
feigned condition, he became famed throughout 
all the court, and at length attracted the notice 
of Theseus. Yet for all this he dared not reveal 


10 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


himself nor own his love to Emelie, lest he should 
instantly be put to death. 

And now it happened that, after many trials, 
Palamon escaped from prison. He determined 
to go at once to Thebes, and, if possible, stir up 
his friends to war against Theseus, that in this 
way he might force him to bestow Emelie on 
him as his wife. Just outside the city of Athens 
was a wood where Arcite was wont to walk and 
lament the cruel fate which placed him so near 
Emelie as her serving-man, while it forbade him 
to speak to her as a true knight who loved her. 
On the very eve that Palamon had escaped, he 
walked by himself in this wood and recounted 
aloud the sighs he had breathed, the pangs he 
had suffered, and all that had befallen him since 
his return to Athens. Now in this very spot 
Palamon was hiding to wait for the next day’s 
dawn to go on his journey, and from a leafy 
covert he heard all Arcite’s complaints. At the 
close of his speech he suddenly burst out upon 
him. 

“ False traitor ! ” he cried. “ Stain on fair 
knighthood ! Perjured Arcite ! Darest still to 
love my lady, for whose sweet sake I have burst 
through stone walls and iron bars ? If I had a 
weapon I could slay thee, but weaponless as I 
am, I defy thee here. Choose, then, if thou wilt 
give up Emelie or die.” 


THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. * 11 

At this Arcite answered more mildly, — “ Be 
it so, cousin ; I am willing to test this with the 
sword. Rest thee here to-night, for thou art still 
weak and prison-worn. I will bring here to this 
wood, food and a couch for to-night’s comfort. 
To-morrow, or ere the rising of the sun, I will 
be here with two sets of armor, and swords for 
both. Thou shalt choose the best and leave the 
other for me. And we will fight till one of us is 
dead from his wounds.” 

Arcite kept his word in every point, and next 
day at early dawn he was in the wood with two 
sets of armor, and swords to match them. Pala- 
mon awaited him eagerly, and with all courtesy 
each helped the other buckle on his harness and 
make ready for the affray. Soon the clashing of 
their swords smote sparks of fire so thick that 
they shone in the green wood like myriads of 
fire-flies. 

Suddenly, in the middle of their deadly sport, 
the knights heard the sharp bay of hounds, the 
blast of the horns, the rush of many steeds ; and, 
looking up, they saw themselves surrounded by 
a royal hunting party. There was the noble 
Duke Theseus, and by his side Hypolita, with 
snow-white falcon on her wrist, while foremost 
among the ladies of the court, all clad in green, 
rode Emelie, the unconscious cause of all this 
strife. 


12 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

When the duke demanded the reason of this 
affray, and their drawn weapons, there was no 
other way for the knights than to confess the 
truth, and tell the cause of their quarrel. This 
Palamon did, not hiding that he had broken loose 
from his strong prison, and accusing Arcite of 
having forsworn himself in returning to Athens 
to live as a menial in the palace of the duke. 

When all this story had been told, the listen- 
ers were much moved. The hardy queen, more 
used to battles than to tears, wept for very wom- 
anhood ; and Emelie, rosy with blushes, that 
these two knights should so boldly avow their 
love for her, must needs cool the burning of her 
cheeks with overrunning crystal tears. 

And the duke, while all cried out upon him 
to be merciful, at length gave this as his decree. 

First, he exacted of the two kinsmen that they 
should promise never more to make war on his 
country, nor to plot any mischief against him ; 
and when they had pledged this, he said, — 
“Now, though Emelie be a worthy match for 
any knight in Christendom, yet she cannot marry 
both, be your deserts equally great. Therefore 
ye shall abide the test of honorable combat. In 
one year’s time, at Athens here, we will hold a 
tourney, at which both Palamon and Arcite, with 
each a hundred bravest knights, shall enter the 
lists, and he who comes off conqueror, shall 


THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. - 13 

wed the lady. The other must do as he best 
can.” 

To this, with many praises of the duke’s good- 
ness, all assented. 

Now, all the year Theseus was building the 
lists for the tournament. Never since the world 
began, ‘were there such brave preparations. The 
field was made a circle, and walled about with 
stone. At three points in the walls a fair temple 
was built. One of pure marble, in honor of Ve- 
nus, queen of Love and Beauty. The second, 
shining with gold, was to Mars, god of war. The 
third, of red and white coral, beautiful beyond 
compare, was dedicated to Diana, at whose altar 
sweet Emelie worshipped. 

When the year was at an end, into Athens 
came Palamon with his hundred knights, each 
the flower of chivalry. First came the brave 
Lycurgus, of Thrace, riding in his golden chariot, 
drawn by four milk-white bulls. His long black 
hair streamed over his shoulders, and on his 
head he wore a heavy crown of gold, gleaming 
with jewels. Beside his car walked ten huge 
white mastiffs, each nearly as large as a steer, 
close muzzled to their very throats. 

At the same hour, through another gate of the 
city, entered Arcite. With him came Emetrius, 
king of Ind, leading his hundred warriors. 

Emetrius bestrode a horse whose trappings 


14 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

were all of gold. His cloak also was clotli of 
gold, embroidered closely with great pearls, and 
a little mantle over his shoulder shone like a 
flame, so thick it was sown with fire-red rubies. 
Over his crisp curls of bright brown he wore a 
green laurel wreath, and his blue eyes glittered 
like steel, in his eagerness for the affray. 

The morning dawned brightly, — such another 
May morning as that in which Palamon and Ar- 
cite first saw the Lady Emelie walking in the 
garden beside their prison walls. Two hours be- 
fore day broke, Palamon had risen and gone into 
the Temple of Venus, and laid gifts on her altars. 
And after he had asked her aid, the goddess had 
smiled on him, and nodded in answer to his sup- 
plications. Emelie, too, as was her wont, went 
to the Temple of Diana, and the huntress queen 
then told her that one of the knights should be 
her wedded lord, but which one not even Emelie 
might know till the tourney was over. 

Last of all, Arcite went to the Temple of 
Mars, and flinging sweet incense on his altar, 
prayed to him with many supplications. The 
statue of the god had clashed its glittering arms, 
and murmured “ Victory.” At which, full of 
hope, Arcite rose up to go and array himself for 
the combat. 

Meanwhile, in the court of Jupiter, king of 
gods and of men, there was a great contention. 


THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 15 

To Mars. Jupiter had promised the victory for 
his chosen knight; but Venus, her lovely eyes 
red with weeping, besought that her favored 
suitor, young Palamon, might have Emelie for 
his bride. While she thus prayed the stern 
Jupiter, her breast heavy with sighs, and her 
cheeks wet with silver tears, Saturn, oldest of 
the gods, thus whispered her, — “ Grieve not, O 
fairest of the daughters of the gods. To Jupiter 
and Mars belong victory in war and honor 
among men ; to me, dark treason and black pes- 
tilence ; mine is the drowning in the lonely sea, 
the strangling rope, the deadly poison, and all 
means of sudden death. Weep no more, for I 
promise thy pleasure shall yet be done, and 
Palamon shall have Emelie.” 

Now in the broad daylight, Athens is all astir. 
Now is heard the clattering of hoofs ; the ring- 
ing of hammers, which rivet together the links 
of the armor ; the tramping of hurried feet ; the 
sharp word of command, and the knights calling 
on their squires. Now is seen the glitter of gold 
and the flash of steel, the waving of plumes and 
fluttering of mantles. Now each man has 
fastened the last buckle and helped his master 
mount, and the steeds champ their shining bits, 
impatient to be gone. 

Inside the walls of the tourney-ground, under 
a canopy, sit Theseus and his court. Among 


16 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

all the ladies, none so lovely as Emelie. She is 
clad all in white, with her yellow hair garlanding 
her head ; and so fair is she, that the very air 
seems to breathe her praises. And now Theseus 
gives aloud, by the mouth of the herald, the 
rules by which the tourney shall be conducted. 
First, in order to prevent loss of life, no man 
shall carry into the lists either bow and arrows, 
nor poleaxe, nor short sword. Neither shall he 
ride but one course with sharp-pointed spear. 

If any transgress these rules, they shall be 
taken out from the lists,' and stand at the stake 
till the tourney is ended. If either chieftain be 
overthrown or conquered, the victory is de- 
clared. 

The weapons shall be only spears, lances, and 
the mace. 

Now the heralds have cried aloud the charge, 
and the trumpets and clarions have blown, and 
the drums beat, and the fierce onset begun. The 
lances shiver, swords gleam, the maces ring 
heavily on steel helmets. Now this brave knight 
is unhorsed, and meets his enemy in fierce grap- 
ple ; now one is trampled under foot ; now clouds 
of dust hide all like a ' thick smoke ; here t they 
struggle unfairly and are led to the stake, till the 
affray is over ; there one is borne bleeding from 
the field. 

Many times the heralds sound the trumpets for 


THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 


17 


a breathing-space in the battle, and again and 
again they return to the charge. But alas for 
Palamon ! just at evening he is overcome, when 
he would go to the help of the brave Lycurgus, 
who is unhorsed, and fighting bravely ; and The- 
seus cries out that Arcite has the victory, and 
Palamon must yield himself conquered. 

Then Palamon’s heart sinks like lead in his 
breast, and by the throne of Jupiter, on high 
Olympus, Venus wrings her hands, in anguish 
of his defeat. But who is more proud than Ar- 
cite, and whose eyes beam so tenderly as Erne- 
lie’s, since, woman-like, her heart is already 
moved with love for the victorious hero. 

Now he rides forward, the dust on his armor, 
many a stain of red blood on his waving mantle, 
his plumes nodding proudly, his eyes full of glad- 
ness. Now Emelie bends forward, with the lau- 
rel wreath in her hand, when, alas that I must 
write it ! the fiery steed of Arcite starts, plunges 
forward and then back, and over his arched neck 
flings Arcite on the stone pavement in front of 
the royal dais. Thus has Saturn redeemed his 
pledge to Venus, and sudden death overtaken 
the victor under the shadow of the laurel 
wreath. 

They cleared the brave knight of his armor, 
and still he lingered a little, always crying for 
Emelie. Then he died, and his fair lady and 
2 


18 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Palamon wept together at his bedside. Over all 
the land was great mourning. Theseus would 
hardly be comforted for the loss of this brave 
heart, and Hypolita bewailed this flower of 
knighthood rudely cut off in his prime. All the 
maidens cry by his bier, “ Alas, alas ! Arcite, 
why didst thou die thus ? Hadst thou not gold 
enough, and Emelie ? ” 

At last they made a great funeral pyre of all 
rare and costly woods, and Emelie herself lighted 
the torch which consumed it to ashes. After this 
she mourned him for a long time in deep widow- 
hood ; but when the period of mourning had been 
prolonged a year, Theseus called both Palamon 
and Emelie to his presence. 

“It is not good to grieve always,” he said to 
Emelie. “ Arcite was a noble gentleman, and 
loved you dear, but you cannot call him back 
with grieving. Here is his kinsman, not less 
brave, who has loved you as long and as dearly. 
What say you to him, Emelie ? As for Pala- 
mon, I warrant he will not say me nay.” 

And with these words, Theseus placed the 
hand of his sister in that of the knight, and Eme- 
lie looked at Palamon and smiled up in his face 
with a smile which made sunshine in his sad 
heart. 

Then there was a royal wedding at the palace, 
and never was a more loving pair than these two, 


THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN, 


19 


no husband more tender, no wife more true. No 
grief ever came between them, and no shadow 
feli on their lives till death came to take them 
apart. 




THE PIOUS CONSTANCE. 

(FKOM CHAUCER.) 

i^\NCE upon a time thg Emperor of Rome liad 
a beautiful daughter named Constance. She 
was so fair to look on, that far and wide, she was 
spoken of as “ the beautiful princess.” But, bet- 
ter than that, she was so good and so saintly that 
everybody in her father’s dominions loved her, 
and often they forgot to call her “ the beautiful 
princess,” but called her instead, “ Constance 
the good” 

All the merchants who came thither to buy 
and sell goods, carried away to other countries 
accounts of Constance, her beauty, and her holi- 
ness. One day there came to Rome some mer- 
chants from Syria, with shiploads of cloths of 
gold, and satins rich in hue, and all kinds of 
spicery, which they would sell in the Roman . 
markets. While they abode here, the fame of 
Constance came to their ears, and they some- 
times saw her lovely face as she went about the 
city among the poor and suffering, and were so 
pleased with the sight that they could talk of 


THE PIOUS CONSTANCE. 


21 


nothing else when they returned home ; so that, 
after a while, their reports came to the ear of the 
Soldan of Syria, their ruler, and he sent to the 
merchants to hear from their lips all about the 
fair Roman maiden. 

As soon as he heard this story, this Soldan be- 
gan secretly to love the fair picture which his 
fancy painted of the good Constance, and he 
shut himself up to think of her, and to study how 
he could gain her fordiis own. 

At length he sent to all his wise men, and 
called them together in council. 

“ You have heard,” he said to them, “ of the 
beauty and goodness of the Roman princess. I 
desire her for my wife. So cast about quickly 
for some way by which I may win her.” 

Then all the wise men were horrified ; because 
Constance was a Christian, while the Syrians be- 
lieved in Mohammed as their sacred prophet. 
One wise man thought the Soldan had been be- 
witched by some fatal love-charm brought from 
Rome. Another explained that some of the 
stars in the heavens were out of place, and had 
been making great mischief among the planets 
which governed the life of the Soldan. One 
had one explanation and one another, but to all 
the Soldan only answered, — “ All these words 
avail nothing. I shall die if I may not have 
Constance for my wife.” 


22 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

One of the wise men then said plainly, — 
“ But the Emperor of Rome will not give his 
daughter to any but a Christian.” 

When the Soldan heard that he cried joyfully : 
“ O, if that is all, I will straightway turn Chris- 
tian, and all my kingdom with me.” 

So they sent an ambassador to the Emperor to 
know if he would give his daughter to the Sol- 
dan of Syria, if he and all his people would turn 
Christian. And the Emperor, who was very 
devout and thought he ought to use all means to 
spread his religion, answered that he would. 

So poor little Constance, like a white lamb 
chosen for a sacrifice, was made ready to go to 
Syria. A fine ship was prepared, and with a 
treasure for her dowry, beautiful clothes, and 
hosts of attendants, she was put on board. 

She herself was pale with grief and weeping 
at parting from her home and her own dear 
mother. But she was so pious and devoted that 
she was willing to go if it would make Syria a 
good Christian land. So, as cheerfully as she 
could, she set sail. 

Now the Soldan had a very wicked mother, 
who was all the time angry in her heart that the 
Soldan had become a Christian. Before Con- 
stance arrived in Syria, she called together all 
the lords in the kingdom whom she knew to be 
friendly to her. She told them of a plot she had 


THE PIOUS CONSTANCE. 


23 


made to kill the Soldan and all those who 
changed their religion with him, as soon as the 
bride had come. They all agreed to this dread- 
ful plot, and then the old Soldaness went, smil- 
ing and bland, to the Soldan’s palace. 

“ My dear son,” she said, “ at last I am re- 
solved to become a Christian ; I am surprised I 
have been blind so long to the beauty of this new 
faith. And, in token of our agreement about 
it, I pray you will honor me by attending with 
your bride at a great feast which I shall make 
for you.” 

The Soldan was overjoyed to see his mother 
so amiable. He knelt at her feet and kissed her 
hand, saying, — “ Now, my dear mother, my 
happiness is full, since you are reconciled to this 
marriage. And Constance and I will gladly 
come to your feast.” 

Then the hideous old hag went away, nodding 
and mumbling, — “Alia! mistress Constance, 
white as they call you, you shall be dyed so red 
that all the water in your church font shall not 
wash you clean again ! ” 

Constance came soon after, and there was 
great feasting and merry-making, and the Soldan 
was very happy. 

Then the Soldaness gave her great feast, and 
while thev sat at the table, her soldiers came in 
and killed the Soldan and all the lords who were 


24 STORIES FROM . OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


friendly to him, and slaughtered so many that 
the banquet-hall swam ankle 2 deep in blood. 

But they did not slay Constance. Instead, 
they bore her to the sea and put her on board her 
ship all alone, with provisions for a long journey, 
and then set her adrift on the wide waters. 

Fancy her, tossing about on the wild sea, amid 
waves and winds, all calm and pale, with her 
little crucifix, which she always wore round her 
neck, folded close to her bosom. So she sailed 
on, drifting past many shores, out into the limit- 
less ocean, borne on by the billows, seeing the 
day dawn and the sun set, and never meeting 
living creature. All alone on a wide ocean ! 
drifting down into soft southern seas where the 
warm winds always blew, then driving up into 
frozen waters where green, glittering icebergs 
sailed solemnly past the ship, so near, it seemed 
as if they would crush the frail bark to atoms. 

So for three long years, day and night, winter 
and summer, this lonely ship went on, till at 
length the winds cast it on the English shores. 

As soon as the ship stranded, the governor of 
the town, with his wife, and a great crowd of 
people, came to see this strange vessel. They 
were all charmed with the sweet face of Con- 
stance, and Dame Hennegilde, the governor’s 
wife, on the instant, loved her as her life. So 
this noble couple took her home and made much 







syill 

2§| 

D® 

Bmp 


THE PIOUS CONSTANCE. Page 24 















THE PIOUS CONSTANCE. 


25 


of her. But Constance was so mazed with the 
peril she had passed that she could scarcely re- 
member who she was or whence she came, and 
could answer naught to all their questionings. 

While she lived with the good Hennegilde, a 
young knight began to love her, and sued for her 
love in return. But he was so wicked that Con- 
stance would not heed him. This made him very 
angry. He swore in his heart that he would 
have revenge. He waited until one night when 
the governor was absent, and going into the room 
where Dame Hennegilde lay, with Constance 
sleeping in the same chamber, this wicked knight 
killed the good lady. Then he put the dripping 
knife into the hand of Constance, and smeared 
her face and clothes with blood, that it might 
appear she had done the deed* 

When the governor returned and saw this 
dreadful sight, he knew not what to think. Yet, 
even then, he could not believe Constance was 
guilty. He carried her before the king to be 
judged. This King, Alla, was very tender and 
good, and when he saw Constance standing in 
the midst of the people, with her frightened eyes 
looking appealingly from one to another like 
a wounded deer who is chased to its death, his 
heart was moved with pity. 

The governor and all his people told how 
Constance had loved the murdered lady, and 


26 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


what holy words she had taught. All except the 
real murderer, who kept declaring she was the 
guilty one. 

The king asked her, “ Have you any cham- 
pion who could fight for you ? ” 

At this Constance, falling on her knees, cried 
out that she had no champion but God, and 
prayed that He would defend her innocence. 

“ Now,” cried the king, “ bring the holy book 
which was brought from Brittany by my fathers, 
and let the knight swear upon it that the maiden 
is guilty.” 

So they brought the book of the Gospels, and 
the knight kissed it, but as soon as he began to 
take the oath he was felled down as by a terrible 
blow, and his neck was found broken and his 
eyes burst from his head. Before them all, in 
great agony, he died, confessing his guilt and 
the innocence of Constance. 

King Alla had been much moved by the 
beauty of Constance and her innocent looks, and 
now she was proved guiltless, all his heart went 
out to her. And when he asked her to become 
his queen she gladly consented, for she loved 
him because he had pitied and helped her. They 
were soon married amidst the great rejoicing of 
the people, and the king and all the land became 
converted to the Christian faith. 

This king also had a mother, named Done- 


THE PIOUS CONSTANCE. 


27 


gilde, an old heatheness, no less cruel than the 
mother of the Soldan. She hated Constance 
because she had been made queen, though for 
fear of her son’s wrath, she dared not molest her. 

After his honeymoon, King Alla went north- 
ward to do battle with the Scots, who were his 
foemen, leaving his wife in charge of a bishop 
and the good governor, the husband of the 
murdered Hennegilde. While he was absent 
Heaven sent Constance a beautiful little son, 
whom she named Maurice. 

As soon as the babe was born, the governor 
sent a messenger to the king with a letter tell- 
ing him of his good fortune. Now it happened 
this messenger was a courtier, who wished to 
keep on good terms with all the royal family. 
So, as soon as he got the letter, he went to Done- 
gilde, the king’s mother, and asked her if she 
had any message to send her son. 

Donegilde was very courteous and begged him 
to wait till next morning, while she got her 
message ready. She plied the man with wine 
and strong liquor till evening, when he slept so 
fast that nothing could wake him. While he 
was asleep she opened his letters and read all 
that the governor had written. Then this 
wicked old woman wrote to Alla that his wife 
Constance was a witch who had bewitched him 
and all his people, but now her true character 


28 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

became plain, and she had given birth to a hor- 
rible, fiend- like creature, who, she said, was his 
son. This she put in place of the governor’s 
letter, and dispatched the messenger at dawn. 

King Alla was nearly heart-broken when he 
read these bad tidings, but he wrote back to wait- 
all things till he returned, and to harm neither 
Constance nor her son. Back rode the messen- 
ger to Donegilde once again. She played her 
tricks over again and got him sound asleep. 
Then she took the king’s letter and put one in 
its place commanding the governor to put Con- 
stance and her child aboard the ship in which 
she came to these shores and set her afloat. 

The good governor could hardly believe his 
eyes when he read these orders, and the tears 
ran over his cheeks for grief. But he dared not 
disobey what he supposed was the command of 
his king and master, so he made the vessel ready 
and went and told Constance what he must do. 

She, poor soul, was almost struck dumb with 
grief. But she uttered no complaint, only she 
prayed to the blessed Virgin to take pity on her 
and take care of her poor little baby. Then, 
kneeling before the governor, she cried, with 
many tears, — 

“ If I must go again on the cruel seas, at least 
this poor little innocent, who has done no evil, 
may be spared. Keep my poor baby till his 


THE PIOUS CONSTANCE. 29 

father comes back, and perchance he will take 
pity on him.” 

But the governor dared not consent, and Con- 
stance must go to the ship, carrying her babe in 
her arms. Through the street she walked, the 
people following her with tears, she with eyes 
fixed on heaven and the infant sobbing on her 
bosom. Thus she went on board ship and drifted 
away again. 

Now, for another season, she went about at 
the mercy of winds and waves, in icy waters 
where winds whistled through the frozen rig- 
ging, and down into tropical seas where she lay 
becalmed for months in the glassy water. Then 
fres*h breezes would spring up and drive her this 
way or that, as they listed. But this time she 
had her babe for comfort, and he grew to be a 
child near five years old before she was rescued. 
And this is the way it happened. 

When the Emperor of Rome heard of the 
deeds the cruel Soldaness had done, and how his 
daughter’s husband had been slain, he sent an 
army to Syria, and all these years they had be- 
sieged the royal city till it was burnt and de- 
stroyed. Now the fleet, returning to Rome, met 
the ship in which Constance sailed, and they 
fetched her and her child to her native country. 
The senator who • commanded the fleet was her 
uncle, but he knew her not, and she did not 


30 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


make herself known. He took her into his own 
house, and her aunt, the senator’s wife, loved 
her greatly, never guessing she was her own 
princess and kinswoman. 

When King Alla got back from his war with 
the Scots and heard how Constance had been 
sent away, he was very angry ; but when he 
questioned and found the letter which had been 
sent him was false, and that Constance had borne 
him a beautiful boy, he knew not what to think. 
When the governor showed him the letter with 
his own seal which directed that his wife and 
child should be sent away, he knew there was 
some hidden wickedness in all this. He forced 
the messenger to tell where he had carried the 
letters, and he confessed he had slept two nights 
at the castle of Donegilde. 

So it all came out, and the king, in a passion 
of rage, slew his mother, and then shut himself 
up in this castle to give way to grief. 

After a time he began to repent his deed, be- 
cause he remembered it was contrary to the gen- 
tle teachings of the faith Constance had taught 
him. In his penitence he res T olved to go to 
Rome on a pilgrimage, to atone for his sin. So 
in his pilgrim dress he set out for the great 
empire. 

Now when it was heard in Rome that the 
great Alla from the North-land had come thither 


THE PIOUS CONSTANCE. 


31 


on a Christian pilgrimage, all the noble Romans 
vied to do him honor. Among others, the sena- 
tor with whom Constance abode invited him to 
a great banquet which he made for him. While 
Alla sat at this feast, his eyes were constantly 
fixed upon a beautiful boy, one of the senator’s 
pages, who stood near and filled their goblets with 
wine. At length he said to his host, — “ Pray 
tell me, whence came the boy who serves you. 
Who is he, and do his father and mother live in 
the country ? ” 

A mother he has,” answered the senator : 
“ so holy a woman never was seen. But if he 
has a father I cannot tell you.” Then he went 
on and told the king of Constance, and how she 
was found with this boy, her child, on the path- 
less sea. 

Alla was overjoyed in his heart, for he knew 
then that this child was his own son. Immedi- 
ately they sent for Constance to come thither. 
As soon as she saw her husband, she uttered a 
cry and fell into a deep swoon. When she was 
recovered, she looked reproachfully at Alla, for 
she supposed it was by his order she had been so 
ruthlessly sent from his kingdom. But when, 
with many tears of pity for her misfortunes. 
King Alla told her how he had grieved for her, 
and how long he had suffered thus, she was con- 
vinced. 


32 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH* POETRY. 

Then they embraced each other, and were so 
happy that no other happiness, except that of 
heavenly spirits, could ever equal theirs. 

After this, she made herself known to the 
Emperor, her father, who had great rejoicing 
over his long-lost daughter, whom he had thought 
dead. For many weeks Rome was full of feast- 
ing, and merry-making, and happiness. These 
being over, King Alla, with his dear wife, re- 
turned to his kingdom of England, where they 
lived in great happiness all the rest of their 
days. 




THE KNIGHT’S DILEMMA. 

(from chaucbr.) 

/~\NE of the nobles of King Arthur’s court 
had grievously transgressed the laws of 
chivalry and knightly honor, and for this cause 
had he been condemned to suffer death. Great 
sorrow reigned among all the lords and dames, 
and Queen Guinevere, on bent knees, had sued 
the king’s pardon for the recreant knight. At 
* length, after many entreaties, Arthur’s generous 
heart relented, and he gave the doomed life into 
the queen’s hands to do. with it as she willed. 

Then Guinevere, delighted at the success of 
her suit with her royal liusband, sent for the 
knight to appear before her, in her own bower, 
where she sat among the ladies of her chamber. 

When the knight, who was called Sir Ulric, 
had reached the royal lady’s presence, he would 
have thrown himself at her feet with many 
thanks for the dear boon which she had caused 
the king to grant him. But she motioned him 
to listen to what she had to say, before she 
would receive his gratitude. 

3 


34 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

“ Defer all thanks, Sir Knight,” said the 
qneen, “ until first I state to thee the conditions 
on which thou yet holdest thy life. It is granted 
thee to be free of death, if within one year and a 
day from this present thou art able to declare to 
me what of earthly things all women like the best. 
If in that time thou canst tell, past all dispute, 
wdiat this thing be, thou shalt have thy life and 
freedom. Otherwise, on my queenly honor, thou 
diest, as the king had first decreed.” 

When the knight heard this he was filled with 
consternation and dismay too great for words. 
At jance in his heart he accused the king of 
cruelty in permitting him to drag out a miserable 
existence for a whole year in endeavoring to ful- 
fill a condition which in his thoughts he at once 
resolved to be impossible. For who could decide 
upon what would please all ladies best, when it 
was agreed by all wise men that no two of the 
uncertain sex would ever fix upon one and the 
same thing ? 

With these desponding thoughts Sir Ulric 
went out of the queen’s presence, and prepared 
to travel abroad over the country, if perchance 
by inquiring far and wide he might find out the 
answer which would save his life. 

From house to house and from town to town 
travelled Sir Ulric, asking maid, and matron, 
young or old, the same question. But never, 


THE knight’s dilemma. 35 

from any two, did lie receive a like answer. 
Some told him that women best loved fine 
clothes ; some that they loved rich living ; some 
loved their children best ; others desired most to 
be loved ; and some loved best to be considered 
free from curiosity, which, since Eve, had been 
said to be a woman’s chief vice. But among all, 
no answers were ‘alike, and at each the knight’s 
heart sank in despair, and he seemed as if he 
followed an ignis fa uus which each day led him 
farther and farther from the truth. 

One day, as he rode through a pleasant w^ood, 
the knight alighted and sat himself down under 
a tree to rest, and bewail his unhappy lot. Sit- 
ting here, in a loud voice he accused his un- 
friendly stars that they had brought him into so 
sad a state. While he spoke thus, he looked up 
and beheld an old woman, wrapped in a heavy 
mantle, standing beside him. 

Sir Ulric thought he had never seen so hide- 
ous a hag as she who now stood gazing at him. 
She was wrinkled and toothless, and bent with 
age. One eye was shut, and in the other was a 
leer so horrible that he feared her some uncanny 
creature of the wood, and crossed himself as he 
looked on her. 

“ Good knight,” said the old crone, before he 
could arise to leave her sight, “ tell me, I 
pray thee, what hard thing ye seek. I am old, 


36 STPRIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


and have had much wisdom. It may happen 
that I can help you out of the great trouble into 
which you have come.” 

The knight, in spite of her loathsomeness, felt 
a ray of hope at this offer, and in a few words 
told her what he was seeking. 

As soon as she had heard, the old creature 
burst into so loud a laugh that between laughing 
and mumbling Sir Ulric feared she would choke 
herself before she found breath to answer him. * 

“ You are but a poor hand at riddles,” she 
said at length, “ if you cannot guess what is so 
simple. Let me but whisper two words in your 
ear, and you shall be able to tell the queen what 
neither she nor her ladies nor any woman in all 
the kingdom shall be able to deny. But I give 
my aid on one condition, — that if I be right in 
what I tell, you shall grant me one boon, what- 
ever I ask, if the same be in your power.” 

The knight gladly consented, and on this the 
old hag whispered in his ear two little words, 
which caused him to leap upon his horse with 
great joy and set out directly for the queen’s 
court. 

When he had arrived there, and given notice 
of his readiness to answer her, Guinevere held 
a great meeting in her chief 'hall, of all the 
ladies in the kingdom. Thither came old and 
young, wife, maid, and widow, to decide if 
Sir Ulric answered aright. 

o 


the knight’s dilemma. 37 

* 

The queen was placed on a high throne as 
judge if what he said be the truth, and all 
present waited eagerly for his time to speak. 
When, therefore, it was demanded of him what 
he had to say, all ears stretched to hear his an- 
swer. 

“ Noble lady,” said the knight, when he saw 
all eyes and ears intent upon him, “ I have 
sought far and wide the answer you desired. 
And I find that the thing of all the world which 
pleaseth women best, is to have their own way in 
all things 

When the knight had made this answer in a 
clear and manly voice, which was heard all over 
the audience chamber, there was much flutter 
and commotion among all the women present, 
and many were at first inclined to gainsay him. 
But Queen Guinevere questioned all thoroughly, 
and gave fair judgment, and at the end declared 
that the knight had solved the question, and 
there was no woman there who did not confess 
that he spoke aright. 

On this Ulric received his life freely, and was 
preparing -to go out in great joy, when suddenly 
as he turned to go, he saw in his way the little 
old woman to whom he owed the answer which 
had bought his life. At sight of her, more hide- 
ous than ever, among the beauty of the court 
ladies, who looked at her in horror of her ugli- 


38 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

ness, the knight’s heart sank again. Before he 
could speak. she demanded of him her boon. 

u What would you ask of me ? ” said Ulric, 
fearfully. 

“ My boon is only this,” answered the hag* 
u that in return for thy life, which my wit has 
preserved to thee, thou shalt make me thy true 
and loving wife.” 

Sir Ulric was filled with horror, and would 
gladly have given all his goods and his lands to 
escape such a union. But not anything would 
the old crone take in exchange for his fair self ; 
and the queen and all the court agreeing that 
she had the right to enforce her request, which 
he had promised on his knightly honor, he was 
at last obliged to yield and make her his wife. 

Never in all. King Arthur’s court were sad- 
der nuptials than these. No feasting, no joy, but 
only gloom and heaviness, which, spreading itself 
from the wretched Sir Ulric, infected all the 
court. Many a fair dame pitied him sorely, and 
not a knight but thanked his gracious stars that 
he did not stand in the like ill fortune. 

After the wedding ceremonies, as Ulric sat 
alone in his chamber, very heavy-hearted and 
sad, his aged bride entered and sat down near 
him. But he turned his back upon her, resolv- 
ing that now she was his wife, he would have no 
more speech with her. 


THE KNIGHT’S DILEMMA. 


39 


While he sat thus inattentive, she began to 
speak with him, and in spite of his indifference, 
Sir Ulric could but confess that her voice was 
passing sweet, and her words full of wit and 
sense. In a long discourse she painted to him 
the advantage of having a bride who from very 
gratitude would always be most faithful and 
loving. She instanced from history and song 
all those who by beauty had been betrayed, and 
by youth had been led into folly. At last she 
said, — 

“ Now, my sweet lord, I pray thee tell me this. 
Would you rather I should be as I am, and be to 
you a true and humble wife, wise in judgment, 
subject in all things to your will, or young and 
foolish, and apt to betray your counsels. Choose 
now betwixt the two.” 

Then the knight, who had listened in much 
wonder to the wisdom with which she spoke, and 
had pondered over her words while speaking, 
could not help being moved by the beauty of her 
conversation, which surpassed the beauty of any 
woman’s face which he had ever seen. Under 
this spell he answered her : — 

“ Indeed I am content to choose you even as 
you are. Be as you will. A man could have 
no better guidance than the will of so sensible a 
wife.”* 

On this his bride uttered a glad cry. 


40 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

# 

“ Look around upon me, my good lord,” she 
said ; “ since you are willing to yield to my will 
in this, behold that I am not only wise, but 
young and fair also. The enchantment, which 
held me thus aged and deformed, till I could 
find a knight who in spite of my ugliness would 
marry me, and would be content to yield to my 
will, is forever removed. Now, I am your fair, 
as well as your loving wife.” 

Turning around, the knight beheld a lady 
sweet and young, more lovely in her looks than 
Guinevere herself. With happy tears she re- 
lated how the enchantments had been wrought 
which held her in the form of an ancient ha£ 

O 

until he had helped to remove the spell. And 
from that time forth they lived in great content, 
each happy to yield equally to each other in all 
things. 






THREE UNKNOWN POETS. 

npHERE are some stories which may be called 
the world’s property, since no one can find 
who told them first, or in what language they 
were first written. One of these old tales, 
which is found far back in English poetry, I 
am going now to tell you. Chaucer relates it 
in some of his loveliest verse, but he does not 
claim it as his own, and confesses that he got the 
story from a worthy clerk in Padua, called Fran- 
cis Petrarch, whose 

“ rhetoric sweet, 

Illumined all Italie of poesy.” 

And since Chaucer, many another poet has taken 
up this tale. Three friends of Shakespeare, 
named Thomas Dekker, Henry Chettle, and 
William Haughton, made the same tender story 
into a heart-breaking drama; and since their 
day, in many a different form, it has appeared 
in literature. But I have not yet told you its 
name. It is the" 1 story of 

PATIENT GRISELDA. 

Many years ago, in a lovely country of Italy, 
shut in by Alpine mountains, there lived a noble 


42 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


young Duke, who was lord over all the land. 
He was one of a long line of good princes, and 
his people loved him dearly. They had only 
one fault to find with him, for he made good 
laws, and ruled them tenderly ; but alas ! he 
would not marry. So his people feared he would 
not leave any son to inherit his dukedom. Every 
morning his wise counselors asked him if he had 
made up his mind on the subject of marriage, 
and every morning the young Duke heard them 
patiently ; and as soon as they had spoken, he 
answered, “ I am thinking of marriage, my lords ; 
but this is a matter which requires much 
thought.” 

Then he called for his black hunting-steed, 
and held up his gloved hand for his white falcon 
to come and alight upon his wrist, and off he gal- 
loped to the hunt, of which he was passionately 
fond, and which absorbed all the time that was 
not occupied with the cares of his government. 

But after a while, his counselors insisted on 
being answered more fully. 

“ Most dear prince,” urged they, “ only fancy 
what a dreadful thing it would be if you should 
be taken from your loving people, and leave no 
one in your place. What fighting, and confu- 
sion, and ' anarchy there would be over your 
• grave ! All this could never happen, if you had 
a sweet wife, who would bring you, from God, a 
noble son, to grow up to be your successor.” 


PATIENT GRISELDA. 


43 


The morning on which they urged this so 
strongly, Duke Walter stood on the steps of his 
palace, in his hunting-suit of green velvet, with 
his beautiful falcon perched on his wrist, while a 
page in waiting stood by holding his horse. Sud- 
denly he faced about, and looked full at his ad- 
visers. 

“ What you say is very wise,” he answered. 
“ To-day I am going to follow your advice. This 
is my wedding-day.” 

Here all the counselors stared at each other 
with round eyes. 

“ Only you must promise me one thing,” con- 
tinued the Duke. “ Whoever I marry, be she 
duchess or beggar, old or young, ugly or hand- 
some, not one of you must find fault with her, but 
welcome her as my wife, and your honored lady.” 

All the courtiers, recovering from their sur- 
prise, cried out, “We will ; we promise.” 

Thereupon, all the court who were standing 
about gave a loud cheer; and the little page, 
who held the horse’s bridle, tossed up his cap, 
and turned two double somersaults on the pave- 
ment of the court-yard. Then the Duke leaped 
into his saddle, humming a song of how King 
Cophetua wooed a beggar maid ; tootle-te-tootle 
went the huntsmen’s bugles ; clampety-clamp 
went the horse’s hoofs on the stones, and out 
into the green forest galloped the royal hunt. 


44 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


Now, in the farther border of the wood was 
a little hut which the hunting-train passed by 
daily. In this little cottage lived an old basket- 
maker named Janiculo, with his -only daughter 
Griselda, the child of his old age. He had also 
a son Laureo, who was a poor scholar in Padua, 
studying hard to get money enough to make him- 
self a priest. But Laureo was nearly always 
away, and Griselda took care of her father, kept 
the house, and wove baskets with her slender, 
nimble fingers, to sell in the town close by. 

I cannot tell you in words of the loveliness of 
Griselda. She was as pure as the dew which 
gemmed the forest, as sweet- voiced as the birds, as 
light-footed and timid as the deer which started 
at the hunter’s coming. Then her heart was so 
tender and good, she was so meek and gentle, 
that to love her was of itself a blessing ; and to 
be in her presence, was like basking in the beams 
of the May sun. 

This morning she and her father sat under the 
tree by their cottage door, as the hunting-train 
passed by. They were weaving baskets ; and, as 
they worked, they sang together this glorious 
labor-song : — 

“Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? 

O sweet content ! 

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? 

O punishment! 

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed 


PATIENT GRISELDA. 


45 


To add to golden numbers, golden numbers? 

O sweet content ! 

0 sweet, O sweet content ! 

Chorus. — Work apace, apace, apace, 

Honest labor bears a lovely face ; 

Then, hey nonny, nonny ! hey nonny, nonny ! 

“ Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? 

0 sweet content ! 

Swimm’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears? 

O punishment ! # 

Then he that patiently want’s burden bears, 

No burden bears, but is a king, a king ! 

O sweet content ! 

O sweet, 0 sweet content! 

Chorus. — Work apace,” etc. 

As the hunting party swept by* Griselda 
looked up, and noted again, as had happened 
several mornings before, that the penetrating 
eyes of the handsome Duke were fixed on her. 

“ I fear he is angry that we sit so near his 
path,” mused Griselda. “How his eyes look 
into one’s soul. His gaze really makes me 
tremble. I , will not sit here on his return, lest 
it be displeasing to him.” 

Before the hunt was fairly out of sight, a gos- 
siping neighbor came to the hut of Janiculo, to 
tell the good news. Now, indeed, the Duke was 
really going to wed. He had promised to bring 
a wife with him when he came back from the 
hunt. People said he had ridden into the next 
province, to ask the hand of the Duke’s beautiful 
daughter in marriage. And it might be depended 


46 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


on, he would bring the bride home on the milk- 
white palfrey, which one of his squires had led 
by a silver bridle. 

It was almost sunset when the trampling of 
hoofs told Griselda that the hunting party were 
coming back ; and remembering what the talka- 
tive neighbor had said, she thought she would 
like to take a -peep at the young bride when they 
passed on their way to the palace. She had just 
been to the well for some water, and she stood in 
the doorway, with her bare, round arm poising 
the earthen pitcher on her head, and the rosy 
toes of her little bare feet peeping from beneath 
her brown gown, to watch the hunt go by. 

Nearer and nearer came the train : louder and 
louder sounded the clatter, and full in sight came 
the Duke, with the white palfrey, led by its sil- 
ver bridle, close beside him. But the saddle was 
empty, and no bride was among the huntsmen. 

“ Can it be possible the lady would refuse 
him, — so handsome and noble as he looks ? ” 
thought Griselda. 

How astonished she was when the Duke, rid- 
ing up to the hut, asked for her father. She 
was pale with fright, lest their humble presence 
had in some way offended the prince ; and, all 
in a tremble, ran in to call old Janiculo. He 
came out, as much puzzled and frightened as his 
daughter. 


PATIENT GRISELDA. 


47 


“ Look up, Janiculo,” said the Duke, gra- 
ciously. “You have heard, perhaps, that to- 
day is my wedding-day. With your good will, I 
propose to take to w*ife your daughter Griselda. 
Will you give her to me in marriage ? ” 

If a thunder-bolt had struck the earth at old 
Janiculo’s feet, he could not have been more 
stunned. He gazed at the earth, the sky, and 
into his lord’s face, who had to repeat his ques- 
tion three times, before the old man could speak. 

“I crave your lordship’s pardon,” he stam- 
mered, at length. “ It is not for me to give 
anything to your lordship. All that is in your 
kingdom belongs to yourself. And my daugh- 
ter is only a part of your kingdom.” And when 
he had said this, he did not know whether he 
were dreaming or awake. 

Griselda had modestly stayed in-doors ; but 
now they called her out, and told her she was to 
be the Duke’s bride. All amazed, she suffered 
them to mount her on the snow-white steed, and 
lead her beside the Duke, to the royal palace. 
All along the road the people had gathered, and 
shouts rent the air ; and at the palace gates the 
horses’ feet sank to the fetlocks in roses, which 
had been strewn in their pathway. Everywhere 
the people’s joy burst bounds, that now their 
prince had taken a bride. As for Griselda, she 
rode along, still clad in her russet gown, her 


48 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


large eyes looking downward, while slow tears, 
unseen by the crowd, ran over her cheeks, caused 
half by fear and half by wonder at what had 
happened. Not once did she look into her lord’s 
face, till the moment when they reached the pal- 
ace steps ; and leaping lightly from his horse, 
Duke Walter took her from the palfrey in his 
own royal arms. Then he said, 44 How say’st 
thou, Griselda ? Wilt be my true wife, subject 
to my will, as a dutiful wife should be ? ” 

And looking in his face, she said solemnly, 
as if it were her marriage vow, 44 1 will be my 
lord’s faithful servant, obedient in all things.” 

Then they brought rich robes to put on Gri- 
selda, and the priest pronounced the wedding 
ceremony, and the bridal feast was eaten, and 
patient Griselda became a great Duchess. 

For a time all went on happily in the country 
of Saluzzo, where Duke Walter held reign. The 
people loved the meek Duchess no less that she 
was lowly born ; and when two beautiful twin 
babes were born to the Duke, a boy and girl, 
the joy was unbounded all over the kingdom. 
Walter, too, was very joyful ; or, he would have 
been very happy, if a demon of distrust had not 
been growing up in his heart ever since he had 
married the beautiful Griselda. He saw how 
gentle she was, and how obedient to him in 
all things, and he was all the time uncertain 


PATIENT GRISELDA. 


49 


whether this yielding spirit was caused by love 
of him, or by gratitude at the high place to 
which he had lifted her, and the grandeur with 
which he had. surrounded her. He remembered 
the vow she had taken when she looked into 
his eyes and said, “ I will be my lord's faithful 
servant, obedient in all things,” and thinking of 
it, day by day, there arose in his heart a desire 
to put her love and faith to the test. 

The resolution to which he came was so cruel, 
that we can scarcely believe he could have loved 
Griselda, and Had the heart to attempt to carry 
out his design. He took into his counsel only 
an old servant named Furio, and to him he gave 
the execution of his plan. 

One day Griselda sat in her chamber, caress- 
ing and playing with her two babes. She had 
never intrusted their care and rearing to any but 
herself, and her chief delight had been to tend 
them, to note their pretty ways, to rock them 
asleep, and to watch their rosy slumbers. At 
this moment, tired out with play, her noble boy, 
the younger Walter, lay in his cradle at her foot ; 
and the sweet girl, with her father’s dark eyes, 
lay on the mother’s bosom, while she sang softly 
this cradle song, to lull them to sleep : — 

“ Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, 

Smiles awake when you do rise ; 

Sleep, pre ty wantons, do not cry, 

And I will sing a lullaby; 

Rock them, rock them, lullab}'. 

4 


50 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

“ Care is heavy, therefore sleep you, 

You are care, and care must keep you ; 

Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, 

And I will sing a lullaby; 

Rock them, rock them, lullaby.” 

% 

While the young Duchess sang the last notes 
of her song, Furio appeared on the threshold. 
Some remorse for what he was to do, made the 
water for an instant dim his eyes, as he watched 
the group. But he had sworn to do his lord’s 
bidding, and he only hesitated for a. moment. 
Looking up, Griselda saw him, and greeted him 
with a smile. 

“ Enter, good Furio,” she said. “ See, they 
are both asleep. When he sleeps, my boy is 
most like his father ; but awake, my girl’s dark 
eyes recall him most. Have you any message 
from my lord, Furio? ” 

“My lady,” answered the old man, hesitat- 
ingly, “ I have a message. It is somewhat hard 
to deliver, but the Duke must have his own will. 
My lord fears you are too much with the babes ; 
that you are not quite a fitting nurse for them. 
Not that he fears your low birth will taint the 
manners of his children, but he fears the people 
might fancy it was so, and he must consult the 
wishes of .his people.” 

“ If my lord thinks so,” answered Griselda, 
“ he may find nurses for his babes. It seems as 
if no love could be so dear as mine. But per- 


PATIENT GRISELDA. 


51 


chance he is right. My ways are uncouth be- 
side those of royal blood. I will give my babes 
a better teacher. Only I may see them often, 
and love them still as dear, can I not, Furio ? ” 

“ That is not my lord’s wish, madam,” said 
Furio, not daring to look full at the Duchess, 
and keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. 
“ The Duke fears that even now the people mur- 
mur that an heir of base origin shall grow up to 
rule over them. And he is forced to study the 
will of his people. So he has sent me to take 
away the babes, and dispose of them according 
to his royal orders.” 

When he had said this, Griselda looked at 
him as one who did not understand the language 
which he spake. All the blood forsook her 
cheek, her strength gave way, and falling at the 
feet of the old servant, still holding her baby 
clasped to her breast, she looked up in his face 
imploringly, like the deer who lies under the 
knife of the hunter. 

But when Furio began to take up the babes, 
the boy from his nest among his cradle pillows, 
the girl from her soft refuge in the mother’s 
bosom, — then the sorrow of Griselda would 
have melted the tough flint to tears. She prayed 
with moving words, she shed such floods of tears, 
she gave such piteous cries of agony, that Furio, 
tearing the children away with one strong effort, 


52 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


ran from the room with the screaming infants, 
his own face drenched with weeping. When the 
Duke heard of all this, though it did not move 
him from his obstinacy of purpose, he yet grieved 
in secret, and wondered if Griselda’s love could 
outlast this trial. 

The twin babes, torn so rudely from their 
mother, were sent to a noble sister of the Duke, 
who dwelt in Pavia ; but no word was told to 
Griselda of their fate ; and she, poor mother, 
submissive to her husband’s will, because she be- 
lieved it supreme, like God’s, dared not ask after 
them, lest she should hear that they were slain. 

When the Duke saw how Griselda had no re- 
proaches, nothing but grief, to oppose to his will, 
even his jealousy was forced to confess that her 
faith had stood the test. Whenever he looked 
on her, her gentle patience moved his heart to 
pity, and many times he half repented his 
cruelty. 

Month after month, and year after year went 
by, and again and again did this demon of sus- 
picion stir the Duke to some trial of his wife’s 
obedience and patience. He drove out the aged 
Janiculo from the comfortable lodgment in the 
palace in which Griselda had bestowed him, and 
forced him to return to the hut where he had 
lived before his daughter’s greatness. And 
though Griselda’s paling face and sad eyes told 


PATIENT GRISELDA. 53 

her sorrow, she uttered no word of complaint or 
anger against the Duke. 

“ Is he not my liege lord,” she said to her own 
heart, when it sometimes rose in bitter complain- 
ings, “ and did I not swear to obey his will in all 
things?” 

At last the day came when they had been 
wedded twelve years. Long ago had Griselda 
won the hearts of the people by her gentle man- 
ners, her sweet, sad face, her patient ways. If 
Walter’s heart had not been made of senseless 
stone, he would now have been content. But in 
his scheming brain he had conceived one final 
test, one trial more, from which, if Griselda’s 
patience came out unmoved, it would place her 
as the pearl of women, high above compare. 

On this wedding morn, then, he came into her 
bower, and in cold speech, thus spoke to her, — 
“ Griselda, thou must have guessed that for many 
years ,1 have bewailed the caprice which led me 
to take thee, low-born, and rude in manners, as 
my wife. At last my people’s discontent, and 
my own heart, have told me that I must take a 
bride who can share fitly my state, and bring me 
a noble heir. Even now from Pavia, my sister’s 
court, my young bride, surpassing beautiful, is 
on her way hither. Canst thou be content to 
go back to thy father, and leave me free to 
marry her ? ” 


54 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


“ My dear lord,” answered Griselda, meekly, 
“ in all tilings I have kept my vow. I should 
have been most happy if love for me had brought 
thy heart to forget my low station. But in all 
things I am content. Only one last favor I ask 
of thee. Thy new wife will be young, high- 
bred, impatient of restraint, tender to rude sor- 
row. Do not put on her faith such trials as I 
have borne, lest her heart bend not under them, 
but break at once.” 

When she had done speaking, she turned to 
her closet, where all these years she had kept the 
simple russet gown which she had worn on the 
day Duke Walter wooed her, and laying aside 
her velvet robes, her laces, and jewels, she put it 
on, went before the Duke again, ready to depart 
from the palace forever. But he had one re- 
quest to make of her. It was that she would 
stay to superintend the bride’s coming, to see 
that the feast was prepared, the wedding 
chamber ready, and the guests made welcome, 
because none so well as she knew the manage- 
ment of the affairs in the palace. 

Then Griselda went among the servants, a*nd 
saw that the feast was made, and all things were 
in order, concealing her aching heart under a 
face which tried to smile. When at evening- she 
heard the fickle people shouting in the streets, 
and saw the roses strewn as they had been on 


PATIENT GRISELDA. 


55 


her wedding day, then the tears began to fall, 
and her soul sank within her. But at that mo- 
ment the Duke called, “ Griselda, where is 
Griselda ? ” 

On this, she came forth into the great feast 
chamber from whence he called. At the head 
of the room stood the Duke, still handsome and 
youthful ; and on each side of him a noble youth 
and maiden, both fresh, blooming, and beautiful. 

A sudden faintness overcame Griselda at the 
sight. She grew dizzy, and would have fallen, 
if Duke Walter had not quickly caught her in 
his arms. 

“ Look up, Griselda, dear wife,” he cried, 
“ for thou art my dear wife, and all I shall ever 
claim. I have tried enough thy faith and pa- 
tience. Know, truly, that I love thee most dear; 
and these are thy children returned to thee, 
whom for so many years I have cruelly kept hid 
from thee.” 

When Griselda heard these words, as one who 
hears in a dream, she fell into a deep swoon, 
from which for a time neither the voice of her 
huSband, nor the tears and kisses of her chil- 
dren, could rouse her. But when she was 
bnfhWit back to life, to find herself in the arms 
of her lord, and meet the loving looks of her chil- 
dren, she was speedily her calm and gentle self 
again. 


56 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


Then they led her to her chamber, and put 
on her richest robes, and a crown of jewels on 
her head ; and, radiant with happiness, all the 
beauty of her girlhood seemed to come back to 
her face. Nay, a greater beauty than that of 
girlhood ; for, softened by heavenly patience, her 
face was sweet as an angel’s. From that time 
forth the Duke strove, by every look and deed 
and tender word, to make amends for her hard 
trials. And to all ages will her story be known, 
and in all poetry will she be enshrined as the 
sweet image of wifely patience, the incompara- 
ble Griselda. 





THE STORY OF CANDACE. 

(FROM CHAUCER AND SPENSER.) 

(THE first part of this story is found in 
Chaucer’s “ Canterbury Tales,” where it is 
left in an unfinished state. ’ Spenser afterward 
takes up the story of Candace in the second canto 
of the fourth book of “ Faery Queen,” which 
celebrates the life-long friendship of Cambello 
and Triamond. I have taken some liberties with 
the two stories in order to unite them gracefully, 
but they are very slight and immaterial. 


The famous old Emperor Cambuscan made a 
grand feast in his royal palace to celebrate his 
victory over the sovereign of the Russias. On 
his right hand was his son Cambello, bravest of 
knights, and on the other side sat his fair daugh- 
ter Candace, who was of all princesses most 
learned and prudent. 

While they sat amid the noise and rejoicing 
of the feast, word was brought to the Emperor 
that a messenger stayed without, bearing pres- 
ents to the court. On this he was ordered 


58 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

to be ushered into the royal presence. In a 
few moments, while all waited expectant, a 
swarthy figure, dressed in Oriental guise, came 
in. 

With one hand he led by a silver bridle a 
horse of shining brass, which moved obedient 
to its keeper’s bidding. In his other hand he 
held a small mirror ; by his side hung a sword 
bare of its scabbard, and on the thumb of his 
right hand he wore a ring of dazzling bright- 
ness. ’ ' * 

When he had' approached the Emperor Cam- 
buscan, this stranger knight bowed low and spoke 
thus : — 

“ Most potent sovereign of the West, the lord 
of Araby and Ind sends you these gifts with 
friendly greeting. This horse, of such magic 
power that he who knows its secret can ride 
through the air as if he were borne aloft on 
wings wheresoever he chooses ; a mirror, in 
which he who looks can see who is his true 
friend or his sworn foe. In it any lady can 
see if her lover be true, or any prince can de- 
termine who among his subjects is a traitor. 
With these, he sends also this sword, which 
makes its owner invincible to enemies, and this 
ring, whose wonderful powers are unequaled in 
magic. He upon whose finger it is worn, can 
understand the language of animals, the proper- 


THE STORY OF CANDACE. 


59 


ties of plants, and it shall also have power to 
stanch the blood from any wound, howsoever 
dangerous, which its wearer shall receive.” 

The Emperor thanked the ambassador from 
his brother of Araby, with many thanks, and 
made him welcome at his festivities. The gifts 
were received with great honor, and were di- 
vided between the monarch and his children. 
Cambuscan himself retained the magic horse 
and the mirror, Cambello took the sword, and tc 
Candace, already noted for her learning, the ring 
was given, so that by its aid she became the 
wisest princess in all Europe. 

Now upon each of these gifts there hangs a 
tale more wonderful than any of those with 
which the Persian Sultana beguiled her lord. 
But our fortunes go now with Candace and her 
ring, and the happy issue out of deadly battle 
which it brought to her brother Cambello. 

Now this brother and sister loved each other 
with great affection, so that their friendship stood 
as a pattern of fraternal love. Although Can- 
dace had many suitors among the best born 
knights, yet she refused all, content in the soci- 
ety of her brother and her books, and caring 
naught for any wooers who appeared to sue for 
her. 

But at length the people began to clamor for 
the marriage of the princess, desiring that she 


60 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


should be united to some one worthy of her 
high deserts. When Cambello saw that this was 
the people’s will, he announced that he would 
hold a grand tournament in the kingdom, at 
which all brave foreign princes and knights 
should be bidden. Each who entered the lists 
should engage in fight with Cambello, and he 
who was able to conquer him, should be the hus- 
band of Candace. 

There were three lovers of Candace, who, on 
hearing this announcement, resolved at once to 
risk their lives for her. These three were the 
twin-born brothers, Priamond, Dyamond, and 
Triamond, who all bore charmed lives. It hap- 
pened in this wise : — They were the children 
of a fay who dwelt deep in the heart of an 
enchanted forest. There in a secluded bower 
had the fay reared her brave sons. But alas ! 
they were of mortal sire, and from their earliest 
youth the shadow of their death hung over their 
mother, who was a fairy of immortal birth and 
lineage. 

When they were still babes, she went to the 
dread abode of the Fates, to entreat them to 
spare the lives' of her three boys. Atropos, 
angry at the request, refused her such a boon ; 
but Clotho, the youngest and most pitiful of the 
Parcae, permitted her to look into the web of 
destiny and behold the threads of her sons’ lives. 


THE STORY OF CANDACE. 


61 


To her grief the fay beheld them clipped 
short in early manhood. Then the mother, with 
moving words, entreated the Fates to let each 
inherit the other’s life, so that when the fatal 
shears of Atropos severed the thread of Pria- 
mond’s life, his ghost should pass into Dya- 
mond’s frame, and when his life was ended, both 
together should be added to Triamond, that his 
life and strength might be pieced out with the 
w T arp of his brothers’ lives. This boon was 
granted to her prayers, and with this the fay 
was forced to be content. 

These three brothers came to the tournament 
of Cambello, in martial array, attended by a 
herald, who proclaimed loudly, before them, the 
high deeds in arms for which they were already 
famous. 

Cambello entered into combat with his magic 
sword, sent by the Arabian monarch. On his 
finger also he wore the enchanted ring which 
had the power to stanch blood. Trebly armed 
with these and his own valor, he went forth to 
battle in his sister’s cause. 

The arena was spread thick with glittering 
white sand, so firm and hard that even the horses’ 
hoofs scarce dented its level surface. About the 
inclosure were seats for hundreds of spectators, 
and aloft, in the stateliest place, sat Candace to 
view the conflict. Above the heads of the spec- 


62 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


tators were draped rich canopies of crimson and 
gold, rarest products of the looms of Persia and 
of Ind. Everywhere the most splendid prepara- 
tions were made for the tourney. 

The first who met the weapon of Cambello 
was Priamond, who fought long and gallantly. 
At the last the sharp spear-head of Cambello 
found out a crevice in his thick armor, and gave 
him such a thrust in his side that from the wound 
his life gushed forth. Then his brave spirit, 
instead of seeking at once the grim shades of 
Hades, entered into the mortal shape of Dya- 
mond, who from that moment was twice eager 
for the affray. 

Inspired by double soul and valor Dyamond 
was hardly to be subdued, and for a long time 
the victory seemed doubtful, — till, with one 
gigantic blow, Cambello wielded his good sword, 
and struck from his body the head of his brave 
adversary. 

Then* as the united lives of his two brothers 
passed into the breast of Triamond, a great cry 
of defiance escaped his throat. Not one whit 
dismayed at the prowess of Cambello, he burned 
to engage with him hand to hand. 

At the next morning’s dawn, behold the two 
champions clad in glittering armor, with helmets 
closed, and arms newly put in order, met on the 
snowy field. 


THE STORY OF CANDACE. 63 

Like two clouds charged with black thunder- 
bolts, they meet each other, and are merged in 
dire conflict. Blow rang on blow, blood stained 
the fair sand, weapons were broken and thrown 
aside, and yet without stay, the battle waged, 
and each combatant seemed untiring and incapa- 
ble of defeat. Already the sun stood in the cen- 
tre of the heavens, and Candace had begun to 
fear for her brother’s safety, in spite of the 
charmed weapon which he bore, and begged 
that the fight might cease. 

As the noontide waned, sounds v of surprise 
and admiration were heard to arise from the as- 
sembled spectators, and the crowd shrank away 
to either side. Through the parting multitude 
drove a silver chariot, drawn by four tawny 
lions, who moved obedient to the reins. In the 
chariot stood a . lady, dazzlingly beautiful, who 
bore in one hand a wand twined with an olive 
wreath, and in the other a cup filled with a rare 
liquid called nepenthe, which none but brave 
warriors are able to quaff. 

This lady was in truth the fairy Cambina, the 
sister of Triamond, who, despairing of the issue 
of the fight, had come to make peace between 
them. 

When she reached the side of the two combat- 
ants, Cambina waved her olive-clad wand, and 
at once their arms fell powerless, and their swords 


64 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

seemed glued to tlie earth. As soon as this was 
wrought, Cambina offered them both a draught 
of the liquor which she bore, and they, thirsty 
with their hard fight, accepted it eagerly. In the 
contents of the cup, all enmity and cause of 
quarrel was forgotten, and by the help of Cam- 
bina, a friendship was that moment cemented 
between them which was never broken. 

Cambello gave his sister Candace to Triamond, 
who gladly accepted her as his bride ; and the 
lovely fay was content to link herself with the 
mortal Cambello, so that with this exchange of 
sisters the two knights were still closer knit in 
bonds of affection. 

And so famous did their friendship become, 
that among all the knights of Faery their names 
stood for a sign of brotherly union, in arms and 
in love. 



SPENSER. 


E DMUND SPENSER, the author of “ The 
Faery Queen,” was born somewhere in the 
shadow of the Tower of London, in the year 1553, 
when Queen Elizabeth was mistress of the Eng- 
lish throne. Whether he was of “ good blood,” 
as the genealogists would call it, we do not know. 
His veins ran blood refined by pure poetic 
fires, and that is enough for us who love him. 

Like most poets, he was poor. And he lived 
in days when his verses would not bring him an 
income. Then the poet was forced to seek some 
wealthy patron, who would keep him, as he kept 
a fine horse or a rase breed of dog, and throw 
him some crumbs of preferment, or a purse of 
gold, now and then, so that the poor verse- 
maker might not starve over his work. 

Fortunately, when young Edmund Spenser 
came to court to seek its favor, he was introduced 
first to that rare gentleman, himself a poet, Sir 
Philip Sidney , the very sound of whose name is 
as music in the ears of those who honor chival- 
rous manhood. 


66 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


Sidney aided him with money and influence, 
and brought him into the notice of his uncle, the 
Earl of Leicester, who was the favorite knight of 
the capricious Queen. But Leicester was not so 
fine a gentleman as Sidney, and I fancy that the 
change of patrons did not benefit our poet. He 
read some of his verses to the Queen, and he 
was long a hanger-on at the court. If his own 
lines may be trusted, he tasted to its bitter dregs 
the cup of servility and waiting for favors, and 
came to hate the very name of court and patron. 

After a long time he went to Ireland as secre- 
tary to the lord-deputy, and soon after this he 
had a grant of land in Ireland made him by the 
Queen, and a castle given him for his dwelling- 
place. This land of which he had a share was 
part of a grant made by the crown to Sir Wal- 
ter Raleigh, in his days of prosperity, and I 
always like to believe that Raleigh himself was 
interested in apportioning the poet with some of 
these broad acres. I remember Raleigh once 
visited him there on his estates, where he lived 
with his wife and children, and that there, by the 
little River Mulla, which flowed through his fields, 
these two rare spirits held sweet converse, and 
Spenser read aloud to his friend some extracts 
from “ The Faery Queen.” 

These were his peaceful days. They were 
not long, for in one of the insurrections of the 


SPENSER. 


67 


ignorant and barbarous peasantry, who were con- 
stantly putting .the English residents (whom they 
hated then, as now) to the fire and sword, they 
swept down upon the poet’s castle, burnt and 
ravaged it, and drove out the inhabitants. In 
the haste and fear of the attack, a new-born baby 
was left in the castle, and perished in the flames. 

This was too great unhappiness to be borne ; 
and coming to his native city of London, the 
poet died, three months later, poor and broken- 
hearted, when hardly forty-eight years old. 

His poem of poems is “ The Faery Queen,” 
written in a measure which has ever since been 
called “ Spenserian.” By those who do not 
know its charm, the poem is called “ stiff, pedan- 
tic, and unreadable.” But there are those who 
find in its pages a subtle and pervading atmos- 
phere like that which encompasses the Bower 
of Bliss, or breathes from the enchanted gardens 
of Amida ; which throws the same spell over 
the maturer imagination that the quaint yet un- 
equaled allegory of old John Bunyan still hold 
over the brains of childhood. 

To the tender judgment of those who know 
the poet, and, knowing, love him, the little story 
which follows is intrusted. 



ADVENTURES OF THE FAIR FLORIMEL. 

(FROM EDMUND SPENSER.) 

I. 

HAT voice shall do justice to the deeds 



▼ ^ 'of the renowned warrior-maiden, Brito- 
mart? For love of the brave Sir Arthegall, 
whom Merlin had long since prophesied would 
be her wedded lord, she had covered her yellow 
tresses with a plumed helmet, and hid the beat- 
ing of her woman’s heart under a breast-plate 
of steel. So many conquests had she won in 
tourney and on the field, that her fame almost 
equaled that of the peerless Arthur, Prince of 
the Round Table, a knight whose friendship 
held her in proud esteem. 

Now, as my tale opens, this warrior-maid rode 
briskly toward the sea, which washed an en- 
chanted shore, where day after day the scornful 
Prince Marinell kept watch and ward that he 
might do battle with any one bold enough to 
venture upon its boundaries. 

With him Britomart sought to measure lances 
in an encounter, because of all knights he was 
accounted one of the most difficult to overcome. 


ADVENTURES OF THE FAIR FLORIMEL. 69 


Marine! 1 was the son of Cymoent (one of the 
daughters of Nereus) and an earth-born knight, 
who had loved the beautiful sea-nymph, and 
won her to be his bride. Hence the sea and 
land were equally the home of Marinell, and he 
could wander at will among the grottoes and 
fern forests in the depths of the ocean where his 
mother dwelt. Neptune had given him also, as 
his birthright, the whole control of the stretch 
of sandy shore toward which Britomart now set 
her horse’s head, and all the spoils which the 
waves threw thereon. So that he possessed un- 
told wealth of pearl and amber, and all sorts of 
sea-treasures, besides stores of gold and ivory,, 
precious stones, and rare woods, which had been 
washed upon the sand from hundreds of wrecked 
vessels, which the waves had broken in pieces, 
before they could reach the enchanted coast. 

This fortunate Marinell was passionately be- 
loved by his mother, the sea-nymph, Cymoent. 
In his infancy she had prayed that he might be 
an immortal like herself, but the gods had denied 
her prayer. Then she went weeping to Pro- 
teus, the merlin of the sea, and besought him to 
reveal to her her son’s destiny. Proteus, after 
much hesitation, bade Cymoent guard her son 
from all women. “ For know, O Cymoent,” 
said the enchanter, “ from a woman shall come 
all his danger, and his death-blow.” 


70 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


On this, Cymoent had reared her boy in ex- 
tremest hate of all womankind. She taught 
him to despise all their charms and to distrust all 
their words. So that hitherto he had hardly 
allowed himself speech with any woman or even 
looked twice into a female face. 

Alas that all women were not as hard-hearted 
as the sea-prince ! The lovely Florimel, sweet- 
est and most innocent of maidens, the goddaugh- 
ter of Venus, who had been reared by the 
Graces and Muses on Mount Helicon, had beheld 
the handsome Marinell from the windows of the 
castle not far distant from the sea, where she 
now had her dwelling-place. Often, with her 
attendant maidens, had she ridden near the 
beach, and often had dismounted to gather 
pebbles and sea-weed which the waves washed 
far in to shore. Again and again she had 
watched the scornful prince, who would not 
even glance at her, and like a tame white dove, 
which will fly as soon into the bosom of its en- 
emy as into a hand ready to protect and cherish, 
so her heart had flown into the keeping of the 
black-browed prince. But when she had found 
that he would not notice or look on her, she 
was filled with shame and disappointment, and 
sought only to go away and hide herself from 
all eyes. 

Angry at the indignity put upon all women 


ADVENTURES OF THE FAIR FLORIMEL. 71 

by the indifference of Marinell, Britomart rode 
onward to avenge the wrong done to beauty 
and chivalry by his scorn of the lovely Flori- 
mel. 

As the warrior-maid approached, Marinell 
beheld her coming, and his eyes flashed with the 
desire of meeting some warrior worthy of his 
prowess. Her sex he could not guess at, 
through the thick armor and closed visor which 
she wore ; else might the remembrance of the 
prophecy which he knew threatened his life 
have made him fear to engage in battle with a 
woman. 

“Hold, rash knight!” cried the prince, as 
Britomart rode briskly up toward the watery 
line which the ebbing waves left upon the gray 
sand. “ By what right dost thou venture here ? 
Knowest thou that this is a way forbidden to 
mortal knights ? Fly, then, or with thy life pay 
for thy daring.’’ 

“ Let those fly who fear,” called Britomart in 
tones like the notes of a bugle, “ I am no babe 
to be frightened by idle threats. And either 
I pass these waves or die beside them.” 

With these bold words she ran at Marinell, 
who received her with so fierce a welcome that 
she reeled in her saddle for a second’s space ; but 
recovering, she dashed aside his shield and dealt 
him so hard a blow upon the breast, that her 


72 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

lance’s head broke short , off in the crevices of 
his armor, and he fell, a gory, lifeless heap, upon 
the wet sand. Without waiting to inquire into 
his hurts, Britomart rode swiftly across the 
beach, and spurred her horse’s feet in towards 
the main land. 

Only for a little time did Marinell lie thus 
upon the beach. A courier of the sea, behold- 
ing him, carried the woful news to his mother, 
Cymoent. She heard the story with grief . too 
great to be described. Calling her chariot, 
drawn by ten dolphins, which sported all the 
changing hues of the rainbow on their shining 
sides, she summoned a group of her sister- 
nymphs, and, gliding rapidly over the surface 
of the waters, came quickly to the sad shore. 

Three times did Cymoent swoon over the 
body of her son. Thrice and thrice did she 
call on Neptune and Nereus, and all her sea- 
born kinsfolk, to revenge his death. 

“ False Proteus ! ” she cried, “ no woman 
dealt this deep wound which his poor breast 
bears. You taught me to fear his death-blow 
from a woman, and I, credulous, feared love. 
But they that love do not always die. Better, a 
thousand times, love than death.” 

Amid her grief she fancied she detected a 
faint heart-beat ; and wrapping him in soft 
mantles, all the sea-nymphs bore him gently to 


ADVENTURES OF THE FAIR FLORIMEL. 78 

the chariot, and conveyed him to the bower of 
Cymoent. Here in a cool chamber, arched over- 
head by billows through whose watery dome a 
soft green light suffused the place, they laid him 
upon a soft couch, spread on the pearly floor. 
Then they called Tryphon, the surgeon of the 
sea, to come and look upon the prince and see 
if any art of his could bring him back to life. 

H. 

On the day following the adventures we have 
just related, three knights of Faery were riding 
along over the plain which spread down to the sea. 
He whose plumed crest rose high above his com- 
panions, was Arthur, Prince of the Round Table. 
On his left rode the noble Red Cross knight, Sir 
Guyon, a pattern of spotless knighthood. On his 
right rode Britomart, her visor open and her yel- 
low hair flowing from her loosened helmet. 

As the trio rode on in peaceful converse, they 
were all at once startled by the clatter of hoofs 
and the shrill cry of a woman. Looking up, 
they beheld a beautiful maiden mounted on a 
white palfrey, which she urged to its utmost 
speed, flying across the plain not more than a 
lancer’s throw in advance of them. Close upon 
her heels, in hot pursuit, came a hideous and 
grizzled old forester, who looked less like a man 
than a wolf. 


74 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

When Arthur and Guyon beheld this sight, 
without waiting for debate or parley they each 
set spurs to their horses, and followed with all 
speed upon the forester’s track. 

The path which the pursuer and pursued had 
taken, led into a thick wood full of all dangerous 
winding paths and hidden recesses, and hither 
the knights followed quickly, hoping to overtake 
the lady before she was helplessly lost in the in- 
tricacies of the forest. While they thus spurred 
onward, Britomart, feeling sure that the cause 
of injured beauty would not suffer while in- 
trusted to such worthy lances, turned her course 
in another direction, and sought a castle where 
dwelt in chains the unfortunate Lady Amoret. 

In the mean time the lady entered the forest, 
followed close by her pursuers. It was not long 
before Sir Guyon, overtaking the forester, dealt 
with him according to his deserts. Prince Ar- 
thur still rode on, hoping yet to recover trace of 
the maiden, whose track he had lost among the 
branching ways of the forest. But it soon began 
to grow dark ; he could not hear or see aught of 
her, and at last, following a path which appeared 
to him to be the right one, he presently found 
himself at the opening of the forest in nearly the 
spot where he had first entered it. 

J ust at the wood’s verge he met a dwarf, fan- 
tastically dressed in rich garments, who was sob- 


ADVENTURES OF THE FAIR FLORIMEL. 75 


bing audibly and giving way to other loud expres- 
sions, of grief. 

“ What* aileth thee, pygmy ? ” asked the 
knight, drawing rein beside him. 

“ Has you lordship seen aught of a beautiful 
lady with streaming yellow hair, riding a milk- 
white palfrey, passing this way ? ” inquired the 
dwarf, earnestly addressing Prince Arthur. 

“ I have just followed such a lady into this 
forest, in the hope of lending her aid and succor, 55 
answered he. “But I could not find her track, 
after I had lost sight of her.” 

“ It was my mistress, who is lost to me,” cried 
the dwarf, still weeping. “ Since yester eve we 
can find nothing of her.” 

“And who is your mistress? ” 

“ None other than the Lady Florimel, foster 
sister to Cupid,” answered the dwarf. “ She has 
long been enamored of Prince Marinell, and 
hearing yesterday that he had fallen in duel, she 
fell into deep grief, and suddenly rode off' on her 
palfrey and has not since been heard from.” 

Arthur gave him what comfort he might, and 
sent him back to his lady’s castle. He himself 
departed at once to stir up all the flower of 
knighthood to form a league that they might re- 
cover and bring back the lost damsel. 

In the mean time Florimel, (for it was indeed 
she) sped swifter and swifter through the in- 


76 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

closing shadSs of the thick wood. Just as she 
emerged from its recesses into an open space 
which seemed to mark the limit of the forest, 
her horse, which had been so faithful in bearing 
her from her pursuers, sank down exhausted. 
Neither coaxing words, nor honeyed caresses, 
nor her severest threats could rouse him from 
his fatigue. 

She looked around for shelter from the coming 
night, and found herself in a deep valley, shel- 
tered between high hills. At a little distance 
the light of a curling smoke-wreath filled her 
with hope of a hospitable reception. Dragging 
toward the place her tired feet, she found a 
cottage, rudely made of sods and branches of 
trees. Timidly begging entrance here, a harsh 
voice bade her “ come in.” 

Inside the cottage sat a frightful old witch 
with withered face and knotted hair, mumbling 
strange charms, while she warmed her lean 
hands over a caldron which hung over her fire. 
When this uncanny hag beheld the lovely vision 
standing in her doorway, her blue eyes filled with 
pearly tears, her hair streaming round her shoul- 
ders, and her face pale with fear and weariness, 
she fancied Florimel to be one of the spirits of 
the air to whom she owed forced allegiance. 

But with the sad accents of an earth-born maid, 
Florimel told her sad story, and begged shelter 


ADVENTURES OF THE FAIR FLORIMEL. 77 

for the night beside the comfortable fire. Even 
the witch’s withered heart was touched by her 
forlorn plight, and she bade her welcome, and 
gave her such coarse fare as her hut afforded. 

While Florimel, a little refreshed by her rude 
meal and the warm fire, sat down to arrange her 
garments, torn by the rough branches and wet 
with the night dews, the door opened, and an 
uncouth clown appeared, whose face looked out 
from under a tangled covert of unkempt hair and 
matted beard, as a wild beast looks from his lair. 

This was the witch’s son, whom, in spite of his 
ill looks, she loved, as the tiger loves her young, 
as the bear the unlicked cubs which nature 
teaches her to fight for. 

The uncouth monster glared on Florimel as 
one whose eyes had never before seen a piece of 
gentle womanhood. She, uneasy and frightened 
at his gaze, asked for a place where she might 
rest from the day’s fatigues. Then the witch 
showed her a pile of soft skins, on which she sank 
exhausted, and in spite of fears and misgivings 
for her safety, she was soon fast shrouded in a 
dreamless sleep. 

When day dawned she found the morning 
repast spread beside her. There were tender 
birds cooked in the hot embers, purple grapes, 
and luscious berries gathered in the forest. All 
these the churlish-looking youth had been out 


78 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


before daybreak to seek for her. With the gen- 
tlest speech which his rude lips knew how to 
frame, he urged these dainties upon Florimel, 
while she, fearing as much his love as his hate, 
could scarce eat, and trembled in every limb at 
the sound of his voice. 

When the sun was half way up the sky, the 
monster departed to the wood to find other 
dainties for their guest, and Florimel sought her 
steed where she had left him the night before. 
To her great joy, he answered her voice with a 
glad whinny, and rose to his feet refreshed by the 
cool dews and the sweet herbage which he had 
eaten. The maiden mounted him at once, and 
as quickly as she could, made her way from the 
place where the ancient Hecate abode. 

# When the witch’s son found that the maiden 
had departed, his grief and rage were hideous to 
behold. He tore his matted hair, rent his flesh 
with his long nails, and howling like some savage 
beast, cast himself on the floor of the hut, refus- 
ing to rise or speak. 

His mother, seeing him thus mad at the loss 
of Florimel, cast about for some means to over- 
take and bring her back to him. By her black 
arts she summoned to her aid a swift, horrible 
monster, with the keen scent of a blood-hound, 
whom she commanded to follow Florimel and 
bring her back, without delay. 


ADVENTURES OF THE FAIR FLORIMEL. 79 


Florimel had scarcely issued from the thick 
wood which clothed the valley, and entered upon 
the barren plain which led to the shore where 
Marinell had once reigned, than she heard the 
loud baying of the monster, and, looking back, 
beheld him issuing from the wood. With gigantic 
strides he came on, his long, hairy arm extended 
to clutch his prey, and his parted mouth showing 
a wide row of gleaming teeth. Her heart 
seemed glued to her side with fear, and she had 
hardly voice to cheer on her horse toward the 
shining beech. 

On the edge of the sea, in a sheltered cove 
where the water lay still and smooth, she saw a 
little shallop, in which a fisher, old and poor, lay 
fast asleep upon a pile of his unmended nets. As 
soon as she reached the edge, she threw herself 
from her palfrey, and wading through the shallow 
water, climbed into the little boat. The fisher’s 
slack grasp yielded her easily the slight oars, and 
in a moment she pushed herself out into the 
level sea. 

Who can describe the howling rage of the vile 
monster when he found himself thus disappointed 
of his victim ? With loud cries he threw himself 
upon the fair steed which had borne Florimel so 
bravely, and with his sharp claws tore him limb 
from limb, and set himself to feast upon his man- 
gled sides. 


80 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


While the creature thus gloated over his prey, 
it chanced that Sir Satyrane, one of the bravest 
of all the knights of Faery, at that moment rode 
along the shore. At one glance he saw the 
mangled steed of the maiden, and descried also 
her golden girdle lying coiled upon the sand. 

As quickly as the red lightning rushes from 
the clouds on some hoary monarch of the forest, 
and rives its ancient trunk with its forked darts, 
so quickly did Sir Satyrane ride upon the horrid 
monster and fell him to the trembling earth. 

But by the witch’s magic arts no sword had 
power to end his unclean life ; and after many 
blows which would have put an end to him, if it 
had not been for the charms by which he was 
protected, the knight sent him howling back to 
his mistress. 

Then picking up the girdle which Florimel 
had dropped off in the haste with which she had 
dismounted, the knight bore it sadly away, as a 
proof that its sweet owner had been devoured by 
a huge monster whom he had encountered on 
the sea-shore. 


m. 

Now when the monster carried the news of 
Florimel’ s escape to his mistress, the witch’s 
rage knew no bounds. At once she summoned 
to her counsel all the malicious imps and sprites 


ADVENTURES OF THE FAIR FLORIMEL. 81 

who were wont to do her bidding, and sought 
their aid to frame something which should de- 
ceive her son, who still lay prone upon the 
earth, refusing to be consoled for the loss of 
Florimel. 

By their advice and her own wicked devices, 
the witch formed a creature so like to Florimel, 
that no one looking on the false semblance 
could doubt it to be the true reality. This 
image was moulded of virgin wax, tinged with 
vermilion, to the color of soft flesh. Her hair 
was woven of fine threads of yellow gold ; her 
eyes of sapphire, set to move in her head like 
twin stars ; and in this lovely body she placed a 
wicked sprite of the air, who was skilled in all 
deceit, and knew how to chain the hearts of men 
jn subtle bonds which could not be easily un- 
riven. 

To her ungainly son the witch presented this 
sprite as the lady to whom he had lost his heart. 
He was rapt with joy at seeing her, and more 
than filled with delight that she no longer shrank 
from his rude presence. Soon persuading her 
to walk abroad with him, he led her into the cool 
paths of the green wood which surrounded their 
dwelling. 

Now it happened that when Sir Satyrane 
spread abroad the manner in which he had found 
the girdle of Florimel upon the sand, there was 


82 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


much grief among all the knights of Maidenhood, 
whom Prince Arthur had stirred up in league 
to find and rescue the lost maiden. And since 
Satyrane could lay no claim to her girdle, as he 
had not won it in any decisive combat, it was 
deemed fair that it should be put up as the prize, 
at a tournament, at which all knights, far and 
wide, should gather, to take part in the contest. 

Thereupon, many gallant gentlemen, from all 
parts, were making haste to the place appointed, 
and numberless fair ladies rode with them to see 
the brave deeds which would be sure to appear. 
Through the very wood in which the witch’s 
son roamed with his fair semblance of a woman, 
rode a boastful knight, called Braggadochio, who 
was on his way to swell the lists at Sir Satyr- 
ane’s tourney. He came upon the clown, walk- 
ing with his Florimel ; and believing her the lady 
whom all the knights of Faery supposed dead, 
Braggadochio stopped his horse to challenge her 
rude guard as to his right to her. 

The poor clown, half frightened from his wits 
by the knight’s manner, gave her up, without 
daring a remonstrance, and so soon lost the 
image which had cost him so much grief to pos- 
sess. Then Braggadochio rode on, swelling with 
pride and vainglory, that he bore, as his prize to 
the tourney, the fair lady who was the cause of 
all these preparations. 


ADVENTURES OF THE FAIR FLORIMEL. 83 


Hardly had this mock-valiant gone a single 
stage of his journey when he met Sir Blanda- 
mour, who was also on his way to join the 
knights. Without delay he challenged Brag- 
gadochio’s right to the lady whom he bore with 
him. The boasting knight at once accepted the 
challenge. But before they rode at each other 
. in the encounter, he proposed to his opponent 
that they should turn their horse’s heads, and 
ride back a few yards in order that they might 
return, and ride at each other with greater force. 
To this Blandamour agreed, and when they had 
turned back to back, to ride a little apart, Brag- 
gadochio, sticking his spurs deep into his horse’s 
sides, rode away swifter than ever he had ridden 
before, leaving Sir Blandamour in possession of 
the fair cause of the dispute. 

As Blandamour rode away with his prize, he 
was joined by a party of knights, all on their 
way to the meeting-place. Then, by her wicked 
arts, the sprite who inhabited the semblance of 
Florimel was able to stir up evil rancor, and 
breed all sorts of dissensions among them ; so 
that all the time of their journey to the tourna- 
ment, they were full of quarrelings, and hard 
words more bitter than blows, and many friend- 
ships were uprooted which had stood the buffet- 
ings of long years. 

When they came to the place which Sir Sa- 


84 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

tyrane had appointed, they found many brave 
knights and dainty dames already assembled. 
The eye was dazzled with the many-hued silken 
streamers, the glitter of freshly polished armor, 
the gay trappings of the horses, and the bright- 
colored canopies which were draped over the 
seats where the ladies would sit to witness the 
affray. On a carved and glittering pole, reared 
aloft in the centre of the vast field where they 
were to strive for victory, hung the peerless gir- 
dle which was to be the prize. 

This was a girdle of rare virtue, forged for 
Venus by her cyclops husband, out of the purest 
gold, inlaid with rare stones, and ornamented 
with fret-work, the like of which could be 
equaled by no earthly artificer. But its virtue 
lay in the fact that none but a woman of rarest 
goodness and most spotless heart could wear the 
ornament. If she who fastened it about her 
waist, hid in her soul aught that could sully its 
whiteness, or concealed a thought which was not 
manifestly noble and good, then the strange ces- 
tus unclasped and stole to her feet ; and no 
fastening or clasping could ever force it to hold 
its place upon the person. 

This very girdle Venus had given to Florimel 
when she was cradled on Mount Helicon, and 
the innocent girl had always worn it until the 
fatal day of its loss. 


ADVENTURES OF THE FAIR FLORIMEL. 85 

Now the first day of the tourney arrived, and 
the terms of the combat were declared. It was 
announced that he who was victorious on the 
third day, should be allowed to claim the fairest 
of * all the dames as his lady, and that to her 
should belong the golden girdle which her 
knight’s valor had won. 

Then all the hearts of the ladies fluttered with 
the hope of possessing so rich a prize, and the 
good right arm of every knight waxed stronger 
at the thought of laying the girdle at the feet of 
the lady whom he most admired. 

The first day’s heralds sounded the charge. 
All day long the air was full of the din and dust 
of conflict ; and when at evening the signal was 
given to close the fight, the stout Sir Satyrane 
sat alone in the field as victor over all the others. 
On the second day also Sir Satyrane’ fought gal- 
lantly, till at length Triamond, the sworn knight 
of Candace, won fortune to his lance’s side, and 
remained at last the conqueror of all the field. 

The third and last day came. Again victory 
rested for a while upon Sir Satyrane’s spear, 
till near the very close, the peerless Britomart, 
breathless with haste, rode into the lists, and 
with her enchanted weapon, which none could 
overcome, bore off the glory of the day, and was 
declared of all the victor. 

Then each knight led forth his lady, and un- 


86 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

veiled her face to view, that it might be chosen 
which was fairest of all the fair. Triamond led 
Candace, daughter of an Indian king ; Britoinart 
revealed the pure, sweet face of Lady Amoret, 
her beauty shining like an unclouded star, in 
spite of her long languishing in the dire prison 
from which she had just been released ; Paridell 
displayed the wicked Duessa, whose false beauty 
was able to dazzle many eyes ; and after scores 
of other lovely faces had been seen, Sir Blanda- 
mour unveiled the semblance of Florimel, whose 
deceit no one was yet able to detect. Indeed, so 
often does the vulgar mind prefer the false seem- 
ing to the simple truth, and permits itself to be 
deceived with glittering pretense, that even here 
the multitude cried out in admiration, and de- 
clared that Florimel was never before so radi- 
antly fair. 

But those who were not so easily beguiled, 
said that to their eyes no lady there was so 
lovely as the sad-eyed Amoret. 

Then the umpires offered Florimel to Brito- 
mart, whom they supposed a valiant stranger 
knight. But she rather preferred to hold Amoret 
as her lady, and openly esteemed her the most 
beautiful of all. Then they proffered Florimel 
to Triamond, the second day's victor. But he 
had long since chosen the wise Candace to be 
his lady, and would have no other. Last came 


ADVENTURES OF THE FAIR FLORIMEL. 87 

the umpires to Sir Satyrane, who eagerly ac- 
cepted the maiden, and called himself most 
happy to be her liege and protector. 

Then was the girdle brought out, and each 
lady essayed to try on the precious ornament. 
The base Duessa, the witty Candace, the fairy 
Cambina, charming Lucida, and many others, 
attempted to put on the magic cestus. But alas, 
what shame and confusion ensued, when it was 
found that from every waist it slipped away, and 
refused to clasp itself! At length came Amoret’s 
turn, and she binding the golden zone about ‘her 
slender waist it fitted as if she had been its right- 
ful mistress. Unclasping it, she handed it, last 
of all, to the false Florimel, whom each believed 
its real owner. Plow amazed were all the look- 
ers-on to behold that as fast as Florimel could 
clasp it on, it coiled away and slid from her 
grasp, so that no force could fix it on her person. 

At last, red with rage and shame, the false 
.maiden dashed it under her feet, and declared 
the girdle had lost its charm, and was no longer 
true. Then so eager were many knights to be- 
lieve that none but holy thoughts could dwell in 
so fair a temple, that they began to doubt the 
virtue of the divine cestus, and disbelieved in 
the charm which it was said to possess. 

As the knights made ready to depart, a con- 
test arose among some of the baser sort about the 


88 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

false Florimel. Already by her subtle arts she 
had begun to sow discord among them ; and al- 
though Sir Satyrane had won her love in honor- 
able combat, many of these disputed his right to 
her. Among these were Paridell, Blandamour, 
and Braggadochio, who urged his prior claim. 

At length Satyrane agreed to leave it to the 
lady’s choice ; and moved by her own spritish 
fancy, she chose the braggart knight, whose tem- 
per was of the sort that pleased her best. So, 
leaving Sir Satyrane alone in his disappointment, 
she rode away with her chosen knight, and the 
whole party dispersed far and wide. 

IY. 

It becomes us now to return to the true Flor- 
imel, whom all this time we have left in the little 
boat with the fisherman, afloat upon the bosom 
of the sea. Several miles had the waves, assisted 
by the slight oars which the maiden wielded 
skillfully, borne them from the shore before the 
aged fisherman awakened. When at first he 
saw the vision in his boat, with holy face and 
golden hair, her zone unbound and her garment 
flowing loosely from her white throat, he be- 
lieved her a creature of gentler mould than 
earth, and cowered in his side of the boat, fear- 
ing to address her, lest she proved some powerful 
spirit of the air. But soon, with tearful accents, 


ADVENTURES OF THE FAIR FLORIMEL. 89 

Florimel told him her story, and how, pursued by 
such dire peril, she had sought shelter in his little 
shallop. 

She told him of her royal birth, and promised 
him a dear reward in the future if he would set 
her on some safe shore. Then the old man, see- 
ing the gleam of jewels on her round arms, and 
the rings on her fingers and in her dainty ears, 
and many signs of wealth about her, began to plot 
within himself to rob her, and afterwards to . cast 
her body into the deep. When the black spirit of 
Avarice thus stirred within* his-'breast, he seized 
the maiden with rude grasp and tried to tear off 
her jewels. She shrieked aloud with fear, and 
struggling in his grasp, called aloud on the spirits 
that guard injured innocence to succor her. 

At her cry a strange sight appeared. On the 
crest of the waves was seen a pearly chariot, 
lined with pale amber, drawn by six finny crea- 
tures, whose scaly sides shed forth a translucent 
glow, like pale moonlight. Within was seated 
the enchanter Proteus, his white hair and beard 
flowing to his waist. He hastened on his finny 
steeds to the maiden’s rescue ; and no sooner had 
he reached the boat than he drew Florimel into 
his chariot, and with one blow sank the frail 
shallop. Then seizing the ancient fisher, he be- 
labored him lustily with his forked trident, and 
lashing him to the back of one of the scaly mon- 


90 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

sters who spouted about him, he sent him to be 
cast upon the shore, more dead than alive from 
fear and punishment. 

Florimel had fallen into a deep swoon, and 
Proteus bore her unconscious to his palace 
underneath the waves. There he gave her in 
charge to the aged sea-nymph, Pan ope, who 
bore' her to a secluded chamber and attended 
her with gentle kindness. 

When Florimel recovered, she found herself 
in a huge vaulted hall lined with opal and pearl. 
Corals, red and white, bore upon their branching 
arms cushioned couches, on one of which the 
weary maiden found herself reclining. A lamp 
hung from the arched ceiling, swaying with the 
motion of the sea-waves, and the gentle rocking 
of her couch invited soft slumbers to the eyes of 
Florimel when she should like to refresh herself 
with sl^ep. 

Here many days did Florimel abide, waited on 
by Panope, who saw in the maiden’s beauty, as in 
a glass, the reflex of her own loveliness in those 
days of her youth when she had sported with 
the sea-nymphs, her sisters, before the time that 
Proteus had brought her hither to attend in his 
rock-built mansion. 

Not now were all the troubles of Florimel at 
at an end. Proteus beheld how fair the maiden 
w T as, and forgetful of her mortal birth, he sought 


ADVENTURES OF THE FAIR FLORIMEL. 91 

her for his bride. But she, fearing such a suitor, 
and remembering her love for Marinell, which 
she still cherished in despite of the story of his 
cruel death, told Proteus she could wed none but 
an earthly knight. 

Proteus, who can take as many shapes as 
there are fancies, took at once the image of a 
mortal gentleman ; and finding the maiden still 
averse, he tried in turn all different shapes, 
striving in each to win her heart. 

At length, finding her always unwilling, he 
grew angry and threw her into a dreadful black 
and noisome dungeon underneath the bellowing 
waves. 

This dungeon was built beneath a jagged 
rock, and was inclosed by no walls. But all 
about it swam fearful monsters whose wide 
mouths gaped to swallow whosoever should 
venture outside the limits of the rock. Here 
Florimel languished many weary days and 
nights, praying for death, and filling the waves 
with sound of her cries and groans. 

In the mean time, by the great skill of Try- 
phon, Marinell had been restored to life and 
health. All the daughters of Nereus held great 
rejoicing, and Cymoent attended a great feast, 
under the waters, where all the sea-gods were 
present at the. festivities. Of this feast Mari- 
nell could not partake, because, being a son of 


92 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


earth, he could not eat at the table of the im 
mortals. So while they sat at the feast, he 
wandered away and seated himself beside an 
overhanging rock near the dwelling of Proteus. 
While he thus sat musing, he heard a voice com- 
plaining thus : — 

“ Gods of the sea, if ye have any pity for a 
maid who suffers without cause, deliver me 
from this sad abode, where I lie nearing my 
death. Or if you have no power to help me 
hence, at least let me die, who living am naught 
but unhappy. Is this the punishment of my too 
great love for Marinell, who loved me not at 
all ? If it be so, carry my last sigh to him, 
where he dwells among the immortals, and tell 
him that for love of him Florimel was glad to 
die.” 

When Marinell heard these lamentings, his 
heart, before so hard, was touched with tender 
pity ; and as he listened to her sobs and moans, 
which would have moved a heart of flinty 
stone, he began to devise how he might set 
free the maiden who languished in such a vile 
prison. 

Straightway he went to his mother, Cymoent, 
and told her what captive was held by Proteus 
in his watery dungeon. With moving pity he 
besought her aid for Florimel. Cymoent, who 
could refuse him nothing, went at once to Nep- 


ADVENTURES OF THE FAIR FLORIMEL. 93 

tune, to pray for the maiden’s release, and the 
sea-king forced Proteus to give her up. 

Then Cymoent bore Florimel to her own 
bower under the waves, and nursed her with 
tenderest care, and each day Marinell drank in 
from her sweet eyes whole draughts of that 
fateful passion from which formerly the careful 
Cymoent had guarded him. The sea-nymph 
no longer feared the prophecy of Proteus, be- 
cause Neptune had given his protection to the 
happy pair. 

When she was recovered from her imprison- 
ment, Marinell brought his lovely bride to 
Faery-land, and the day was fixed when the 
nuptials should be celebrated. All the court 
of Faery was bidden to attend, and great prep- 
arations were made for feast and tourna- 
ment. 

When the guests were well-nigh assembled, 
Braggadochio rode in with a veiled lady, and 
dismounting led her with him to the guest-hall. 
This lady was no less than the false Florimel 
whom before he had borne away from Sir 
Satyrane’s tourney. When she had taken off 
her veil, and all present had beheld her, there 
was much whispering and confusion among the 
guests. For all who looked on her, were ready 
to declare that this, was their fair hostess, whom 
they had seen only a little time before, moving 


94 . STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

among the knights and dames as the bride of 
Prince MarinelL Even Marinell himself, sud- 
denly entering, started back in amaze at behold- 
ing the false Florimel, knowing well he had 
just left his lovely wife in an inner hall. 

But Athegall, the knight of Britomart, who 
was present to grace the tourney with brave 
deeds, cried out that this was no true lady, and 
* no mate for Florimel. 

“ In proof of which,’’ he cried, “ I challenge 
that Florimel herself be brought forth and set 
beside this other.” 

Upon this they brought forth the true Flori- 
mel adorned with all modest graces, the roses 
interlacing with lilies in her fair face. Her they 
placed beside the waxen figure “ like a true 
saint beside an image set,” and all at once the 
enchanted damsel vanished, as a snow-wreath 
melteth into air, leaving nothing behind but the 
magic girdle of Florimel, which she had always 
borne about with her. 

Then once more the charmed zone was 
fitted about its mistress’ waist, where it clung as 
if it would never part from it more. 

And thus, as glorious day succeeds thick and 
gloomy night, did the troubled fortunes of Flori- 
mel give way to an unclouded wedded life, 
w r hose happiness was unsurpassed in song or 
story. 



CAMPASPE AND THE PAINTER. 

(PARAPHRASED FROM JOHN LYLY.) 

rpiHE great Alexander of Macedon had come 
home from Thebes rich in triumphs and 
laden with spoils. At his chariot wheels groaned 
hosts of captives taken in battle and in siege ; 
and through the openings of the pavilions, hung 
close with silken tapestry, and borne aloft on 
the shoulders of swarthy slaves, one might catch 
glimpses of women’s faces, their fairness veiled 
in clouds of sorrow that their native city had 
been made desolate, and they themselves torn 
away captive to swell the train of the conqueror. 

One pavilion, more carefully guarded than 
any of the others, was set down at the doors of 
the palace, and its two lovely inmates, clinging 
to each other in fear and anticipation too dread 
for cries and tears, entered the royal halls. 

These were the two Greek girls, Timoclea 
and Campaspe, whose homes had been laid in 
ashes when the siege was raised in Thebes. 
Timoclea was the daughter of a noble Theban, 
and Campaspe a simple Grecian maiden, far 


96 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


more fair in face, though less fair in lineage, 
than her older companion. 

As the two girls held fast to each other in the 
audience chamber, covering their faces with 
their mantles, that their beauty might not tempt 
the gaze of the courtiers in waiting, there was a 
stir and then a hush among the dark-hued at- 
tendants who had been buzzing about the door- 
ways, that boded the coming of the monarch. 
Close by one of the marble columns which 
flanked the further entrance, the dignified Aris- 
totle awaited the royal presence, and behind 
him another figure also stood expectant. Even 
Campaspe, veiled as she was in her shrouding 
mantle, could not keep back some furtive glances 
that rested on this latter figure as he leaned 
with careless grace against the column. The 
beauty of his attitude, the full white throat which 
his silken tunic left half bare, the short curling 
rings of hair on his well-poised head, the eyes 
that shone with the light of genius, all made him 
more resemble the god Apollo, to the eyes of 
the simple maiden, than any earth-born man 
with whom she could compare him. 

“ Timoclea,” she whispered softly, “ is yonder 
man the great Alexander ? ” 

“ No, silly child,” answered the older. “ In 
Alexander’s eyes you will see war’s lightnings. 
Yonder man is more like a poet, or perhaps some 


CAMPASPE AND THE PAINTER. 97 

cutter in marble, who is come to take orders of 
his royal master.” 

At this moment the sound of music broke the 
whispered silence ; the attendants ranged on 
either side the chamber ; the door-curtains were 
swung apart; and leaning on his friend and 
favorite, the wise Hepliaestion, the royal Alexan- 
der entered. 

The king’s eyes shone with the pride of con- 
quest, and although his cheek was not yet bronzed 
with battle-smoke, and his slender supple figure 
still showed traces of his youthfulness, he bore 
himself as proudly as if years of triumph and 
kingly rule had taught him that the globe held no 
warrior fit to mate with Alexander of Macedon. 

He began a whispered talk with Hephaestion, 
and the attendants fell reverently away, leaving 
the two standing alone in the centre of the cham- 
ber. 

“ Yonder she stands, Hephaestion,” said the 
monarch in a subdued voice, “ the fairest of all 
the women mine eyes have ever looked upon.” 

“ I would that her fairness went no deeper 
than thine eyes,” returned the favorite. “When 
a woman’s beauty touches the heart, it waxeth 
dangerous.” 

“ And why dangerous, sweet Hephaestion ? 
If Alexander is a man, he may love. If he be 
indeed the son 1 of a god, even then he may not 
7 


98 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

disdain a passion which caused Mars to linger at 
the feet of Aphrodite.” 

“ Kings should love nothing hut virtue.” 

“ And is not love a virtue, my Hephaestion ? ” 

“ In my sense it is rather a weakness. Con- 
querors should entertain no passions which they 
cannot rule ; and love, time out of mind, has 
led conquerors captive. Theseus won his tri- 
umphs worthily, but he gave all up when he 
laid his heart under the feet of his Amazon 
princess. So wouldst thou be made slave by thy 
captive ? Let me not see so mad an issue out 
of so great a triumph as thou hast won in 
Thebes.” 

“But look at her even now as she stands 
there, Hephaestion, trembling like a coy dove 
that fears the fowler. Is not thy heart moved 
by her charms ? Look on her, and judge if it 
be a weakness to yield.” 

“ I behold her, and I see no such matter as 
thou dost,” answered Hephaestion. u It is simply 
a graceful figure, a little foot, a tapering hand, a 
soft alluring eye, some tresses of curling hair ; 
perhaps — as we have heard — a gracious voice 
and a witty tongue may be added thereto. 
What is all this to the nations that wait for thy 
foot to be set upon their necks ? But I will not 
counsel thee. Counsel availeth nothing when 
a man will be in love, and I pray thou mayst 


/ 

CAMP AS PE AND THE PAINTER. 99 

have this new disease as lightly as thou passed 
through the ills of thy infancy. I will say no 
more.” 

“ A good resolution, sweet friend. Now I 
will approach the maiden, and seek to comfort 
her for her hard fate in being my captive. 
Alas ! if she be my prisoner of war, I am hers 
by love. Thou art sure to say my case is the 
worse of the two.” 

As the king approached Campaspe, she 
trembled more and more. For what fate the 
monarch designed her, the frightened girl knew 
nor guessed not. When he asked her graciously 
to throw aside the mantle which shrouded her 
head and face, she blamed the shield of glittering 
metal on the wall beside her, which showed her 
that in spite of tears and sorrow she was never 
more radiantly fair. 

With courteous interest the monarch asked 
how she and her companion had fared during 
their journey ; if all her wishes had been obeyed 
by the slaves whom he had set to attend her ; 
and as she faltered out her answers to his ques- 
tioning, he gazed on her blushing face with an 
interest which, she could not disguise from her- 
self, was not less flattering than, the mirror of 
steel which had revealed to her her beauty. 

“ I have prepared apartments near our own 
palace for thee, where everything shall be pro- 


100 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

vided for thy comfort, sweet Campaspe,” said 
the monarch. 44 It is a fancy of mine to furnish 
a hall with paintings from the pencil of the 
gifted Apelles. To this end have I bade him 
wait here to-day that I may ask that thou wilt 
grant him the favor to paint thy fair self. He 
lodges in the palace ; and if thou consent that he 
shall put thy shadow on his canvas, he will be 
prouder than when Aphrodite appeared to his 
vision, that he might make a picture worthy to 
represent the goddess to her worshippers.” 

To these words Campaspe listened in amaze- 
ment, mingled with irresistible pleasure, when 
Alexander beckoned to the elegant youth who 
still leaned negligently against the column near 
the entrance. At the monarch’s gesture, he 
came forward, and bowed low at the sight of 
Campaspe’s beauty. 

“■It is. our pleasure that thou shouldst paint 
the lady we present to thee, Campaspe of 
Thebes,” said Alexander. “ Thinkest thou that 
thy pencil can represent her worthily ? ” 

“ Not worthily, my lord king,” answered the 
artist. 44 We cannot paint virtues. Our colors 
can neither speak nor think. But what I can do, 
I will. When will it please the maiden to visit 
my poor work-shop ? ” 

4 4 If I may ask that I have a little time to re- 
fresh myself after my journey,” said Campaspe, 


CAMPASPE AND THE PAINTER. 


101 


still clinging to Timoclea, with the pretty air of 
timidity which so well became her. “ I shall be 
more fit to have my face transferred to thy can- 
vas, and it may then be better worth so great 
an honor.” 

Weeks had grown into months in the palace 
of Alexander, and yet his wooing of the lovely 
Grecian progressed but slowly. The king treat- 
ed Campaspe with the consideration due to a 
princess, and spared no pains to make her sensi- 
ble of the favor with which he regarded her. He 
had resolved not to urge his suit in words, until 
her picture, which still graced the easel of Apel- 
les, was completed, and ready to decorate the 
walls of his palace. As for Apelles, although day 
after day saw him before his easel, and day after 
day Campaspe sat patiently in whatever light 
he chose to place her, no picture ever was so 
long in the making as this promised to be. 

It was a soft morning in October, and the 
balmy air lifted gently the rich curtains which 
draped the windows of the artist’s studio. Every- 
where in unnoted profusion lay scattered rich 
tokens of the painter’s art. In the midst of all 
Apelles stood alone before the portrait of Cam- 
paspe, ever and anon giving a touch to a face 
which already seemed beyond the painter’s art to 
add to or improve. As he worked, he sang to 


102 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


himself a little sonnet, with words and music of 
his own making. It ran thus : — 

“ Cupid and my Campaspe played 
At cards for kisses, — Cupid paid; 

He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, 

His mother’s doves, and teams of sparrows, 

Loses them too; then down he throws 

The coral of his lip, the rose 

Growing on’s cheek (but none knows how), 

With these the crystal of his brow, 

And then the dimple of his chin, — 

All these did my Campasp.e win. 

At last he set her both his eyes, 

She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

0 Love! has she done this to thee? 

What shall, alas ! become of me ? ” 

# 

As his song ended, the painter stood with 
rapt eyes gazing on the picture. 

“ O Goddess of Beauty, and mother of Love,” 
he murmured, “ on whose shrine hitherto I have 
laid the best works my hand has wrought, grant 
me that boon which thou gavest before to Pyg- 
malion. As thou transformed his marble into 
flesh inspired by soul, so turn my picture into 
the living and breathing woman. Or if Alex- 
ander will have my canvas, let him yield me 
Campaspe in its stead. For no less a price will 
I ever part with it. Ah, Campaspe ! beautiful 
Campaspe ! would that thou knewest how dear 
thou hast become to me ! So dear that to part 
with thy picture were worse than death, unless I 
could have thyself in exchange.’’ 


CAMPASPE AND THE PAINTER. 


103 


While Apelles spoke, the entrance curtains 
moved, and Campaspe entered the apartment. 
She walked to the low couch, placed on a small 
dais, made for her to occupy when she would sit 
for her picture. 

Startled by her sudden entrance, Apelles 
turned to look upon her. The sight of the maid- 
en almost dazzled his sight and took away his 
breath. The color in her cheeks was deepened 
into a richer carnation than he had ever seen 
them wear. Her eyes overflowed with a look at 
once so tender and appealing, that the glance 
sunk deep into his heart. Her soul shone so 
through her face, that for a moment she seemed 
more like spirit than mortal, and the painter, 
gazing on her, threw down his brush despairingly 
and approached her. 

“ It is in vain, Campaspe,” he said sadly. 
“ These months past have I tried to fix thv 
shadow on my canvas. It is beyond art. No 
painter can paint that which is divine.” 

“ What treason in the painter of goddesses to 
speak thus ! ” said the girl playfully. “ Didst not 
the very brush which thou threwest down just 
now so disdainfully, paint Aphrodite in such per- 
fection that she has forever blessed thee with her 
favor ? ” 

“ Ah yes,” returned Apelles, “ I painted the 
goddess from my imagination, but thou art too 
dear a reality.” 


104 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

“ Perchance thou art tired of endeavoring my 
portrait,” said Campaspe, “ and would fain give 
up the task.” 

“ Campaspe, how much you wrong me in such 
a thought ! To paint Aphrodite was a pleasure, 
but to paint thee is heaven.” 

As the painter said this, he half reclined upon 
the dais on which her couch was placed, and 
looked up into her face so ardently, that the 
color there deepened and deepened under his 
gaze. 

“In truth, Apelles,” she said half reproach- 
fully, “ you forget your art. I thought you were 
to paint with your hand, and not to gloze my 
poor face with flattering tongue.” 

What he would have answered cannot be 
known, for again the entrance curtains opened, 
and Alexander entered, with Hephaestion. The 
monarch’s keen eye took in at a glance the maid- 
. en’s blushes, the attitude of Apelles, the brush 
thrown down, and the neglected portrait. His 
eye flashed lightnings, and he towered to his 
full height above the offending pair. Apelles 
rose to his feet, and met his anger with a steady 
glance. 

“ I have been but a foolish wooer, Apelles,” 
said the monarch, gravely, “and you a false 
friend. You knew well that I loved this maiden, 
when I intrusted her to thee to be put on thy 
canvas.” 


CAMPASPE AND THE PAINTER. 


105 


“ I knew it, King Alexander, and knowing it, 
I have guarded my lips from any word of love to 
her,” answered the painter. 

“You cannot deny that you do love her,” 
said the monarch fiercely. 

“ No, I do not wish to deny that. Who could 
see her daily as I have, and not love her with 
all his heart ? He would either be less than a 
man, or more than a god.” 

“ And you, Campaspe,” asked Alexander, 
turning to whese she sat tremblingly watching 
the interview, “ do you love Apelles ? ” 

The maiden turned pale and red by turns. 
But looking at Apelles, who stood gazing at her 
as if his soul’s fate hung on her answer, she said 
in a clear voice, “ I love Apelles.” 

Alexander’s face grew darker. He raised his 
arm as if he would strike the two lovers to the 
earth. His eye met the appealing glance of 
Campaspe, who waited as if breathlessly expect- 
ing her death-blow. A sudden revulsion of feel- 
ing overcame him. He took Campaspe’s little 
cold hand, and placed it in that of Apelles. 

“ Here, Apelles,” he said firmly, “ I give her 
to thee frankly. I see I cannot conquer hearts, 
though I may subdue nations. She is thine, love 
her as dearly as thou wilt.” 

The two lovers, overcome with joy and grati- 
tude, sank together at the king’s feet. 


106 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


“Now, Alexander, thou art indeed a king,” 
exclaimed Hephaestion. 

“ Thanks, good Hephaestion. It were shame- 
ful in me to seek to be a conqueror, if I could 
not command myself. Now, then, sweet friend, 
when the world is all mine, find me new planets 
to subdue ; else I will punish thee, by again fall- 
ing in love.” 





FRIAR BACON’S BRASS HEAD. 

(FROM ROBERT GREEN.) 

TN a vast and ancient room, whose appliances 
denoted the- abode of the scholar and philos- 
opher, sat the learned and famous friar, Roger 
Bacon. Beside him, a dusty table was thickly 
strewn with scrolls of parchment, rich with age 
and erudition, while a large chest, heavily barred 
and bolted, was filled with other treasures in 
manuscript, each worth more than its weight in 
virgin gold. 

At the farther end of the room a vast chim- 
ney, with smoky furnaces and crucibles, con- 
taining crudje and half smelted ores, and all 
the various properties of the alchemist, occu- 
pied one side of the apartment. In one 
corner, a huge iron mortar, shielded by screens 
of metal from contact with any spark which 
might fly from the furnaces, was filled with an 
inodorous mixture of brimstone and saltpetre, 
and a black dust which looked like powdered 
charcoal. Everywhere, on floor and table, stood 
such rude instruments to aid in chemistry and 



108 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

astronomy as the time afforded, while all about 
were such evidences of work and study as made 
the place seem as much like the workshop of 
the artisan as the library of the scholar. 

Stretched across the upper end of the apart- 
ment, a heavy green curtain fell in broken folds 
over some object which it was intended to con- 
ceal. Before this curtain sat the great necro- 
mancer, of whose art all England spoke in 
whispered wonder, and with bated breath, u the 
learned Friar Bacon of Oxford.” 

No longer an inmate of the college from 
whose walls his suspected magic had caused him 
to be driven forth, he dwelt solitary among the 
surrounding rustics wdio feared and shunned 
him, and in secret wrought those mysterious 
works which made him dreaded among men. 

He was now only a little past middle life, a 
man of commanding figure and noble head, 
which seemed heavy with -the weight of knowl- 
edge it carried, and now dropped wearily upon 
his hands as he sat steeped in thought. 

His reverie was broken by the entrance of 
his servant Miles, the only retainer he could 
keep about him, a half-witted, faithful fellow, 
who clung gratefully to the hand which fed him. 

“ I cry you mercy, good master,” said Miles, 
hastily entering, but I could not stay upon 
ceremony. A lord is without the door, asking 


FRIAR BACON S BRASS HEAD. 


109 


entrance to you. It is a fellow in a scarlet coat, 
and wonderful fine otherwise. He declares that 
he is from Oxford, and will have speech with 
you. And although I said nobody could enter, 
he will come in, whether I will or no. At 
which I, fearing he might be the Evil One 
himself, took to my heels to tell thee about 
him.” 

“ Let him come in,” answered the friar, 
roused by the servant’s long speech from his 
deep abstraction. “ It is Clement, the cardinal, 
the Pope’s legate to England. Stay, Miles, 
throw a cloth oyer the pile of manuscripts yon- 
der. Pull out that curtain straight. Now give 
me the book of the Gospels. It is enough. 
Show the cardinal hither.” 

A moment later, and the Cardinal Clement, 
himself the next successor to the papal throne, 
entered the apartment. 

“ Well, friar, at last we have found your 
secret hiding-place. It is no easy journey 
hither, and the road is as hard and narrow as 
that which leads to Paradise.” 

“ I am sorry for the trouble your lordship 
took in coming, and should have been happy if 
it might have been spared you.” 

“ Which means, so I take it, good friar, that 
you are not glad at my coming. But, believe 
me, I come with no evil intent, nor for any- 


110 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

thing except friendship. I know how they have 
treated thee at Oxford, and in good earnest I 
have been always sorry for it. Learning is not 
so plenty, that it should be put down ; and from 
what I know of thy wonderful inventions, they 
are not those that the devil teaches his follow- 
ers, but always of good service to the cause of 
Truth and the true Church. I pray thee do 
not distrust my motive. I come in friendly 
guise, unattended as thou seest, and with no 
desire but to be instructed in some of thy magic 
discoveries, and see what they may avail to 
science.” 

“ My discoveries are naught,” answered the 
friar, still keeping up the reserved manner he 
had worn since the entrance of his visitor. 
“ Thou hast heard of the magic powder which 
has so frighted the learned magnates of the 
college that they drove me outside their walls. 
It is but a composition of simple substances, 
which, without any magic art, when touched 
with a spark, will give forth a semblance of 
lightning and thunder. If thou wishest, I can, 
in a few minutes, show thee the secret of it.” 

“No, no, good friar,” returned the cardinal, 
shrinking away a little uneasily from the mortar 
in the corner, which Bacon approached. “ I 
trust thy word, and I am no fool to believe 
stories of any wizard’ s-craft. But there is an- 


FRIAR BACON’S BRASS HEAD. 


Ill 


other matter of which I come to inquire of 
thee. Thou hast a huge head, they tell me, of 
which thou makest a familiar, that tells thee 
strange secrets, and foretells events that can 
affect the fate of nations. Tell me of this. 
On the faith of a priest and a gentleman, I ask 
but for love of science. And ” (here the 
priest’s voice sank lower) “ thou hast heard 
that Pope Urban grows feeble. It is in all 
men’s mouths in Rome, that the cardinal- legate 
of England will be the next high pontiff of the 
Church. I trust thy honor in telling this, and 
tell thee also, that if Clement of Narbonne be 
made the Holy Father of the Church, it will be 
his first mission to do away with the narrow 
bigotry regarding science, and with his own 
royal hand confer honors on those who make 
Learning their mistress. Now do you trust my 
friendship, good Friar Bacon ? ” 

“ My lord Cardinal, I do trust you,” an- 
swered Bacon, whose keen eye had closely 
scanned the features of the priest while he had 
spoken. “ But it becometh us men of letters 
to be mistrustful. We remember that many 
who were not heretics, have been invited into 
the presence of the Inquisition, and have not 
returned from thence. But I trust your word, 
and I will betray to you my mystery.” 

Rising hastily, the friar drew aside the green 


112 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

curtain which had hitherto concealed some 
object from the view. The cardinal turned to 
face it, and then stepped back, awe-struck at 
the sight which the withdrawing of the drapery 
revealed. Placed on a rude pedestal which 
stood several feet above the floor, stood a mas- 
sive brazen head, with grand impassive face, 
and an expression of such dignified grandeur, 
such commanding repose, that it was as if the 
haughty features of some Grecian god had been 
revealed to the awe-struck gaze of the car- 
dinal. 

As he gazed, from the de.ep-set but luminous 
eyes, true Jovine lightning seemed to issue, 
and a deep rumbling sound like distant thunder 
shook the floor on which they stood. 

The legate involuntarily crossed himself, and 
then looking at Bacon, who slowly dropped the 
curtain which concealed the head, he asked in a 
half whisper, — 

“ Is this thy work ? ” 

“Mine, and one other cherished brother in 
science, Master Bungay of Oxford,” answered the 
monk. “ This is the slow work of seven years, my 
lord cardinal, and, as thou mayst guess, wrought 
for no common purpose. This head is formed 
with utmost care and skill by direction which I 
found writ out in parchments more ancient than 
the Church we worship. If my work have no 


FRIAR BACON’S BRASS HEAD. 


113 


flaw, when all is clone, this head will speak, and 
tell me how I may encircle my England with a 
wall of brass, which now and hereafter will hold 
her invulnerable to the assaults of all enemies. 
Think of such a feat,” said Bacon, his face 
glowing with enthusiasm. “ Is it not worth my 
work to leave my name on such a monument to 
my country’s greatness ? ” 

“ Truly, good friar,” answered Clement, a lit- 
tle coldly, “ I doubt whether it be for the good 
of our Mother Church, and her power over the 
nations which are gathered under her wings, to 
have one of her children so walled about. But 
for thy good intentions, I do not doubt them, 
and for thy learning I have nothing but respect. 
No doubt, thy brazen-head, if perchance it should 
ever speak, will tell thee other wondrous things. 
Thou shalt not repent if thou lettest me have 
such advantage as may come of its teachings. 
But I confess, I should not like to see this little 
island so girt with brass. Suppose she might 
then take it into her head to defy papal authority, 
as, armed with such power, she might.” 

“ You reckon impossibilities, my lord,” ex- 
claimed Bacon. “ In so impious a case, the 
wall which should guard England from enemies, 
would topple down to crush her.” 

“ I pray thee, put such a charm as that into 
thy conjurations, good friar,” said Clement, ris- 


114 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

ing to depart. “ But whatever betide, count on 
me as thy patron, and remember that in telling 
thee of my ambition, I have left my secret in 
thy keeping, as thine lies in my hands. Fare 
thee well, my son ; peace remain with thee ; ” and 
with a gesture of blessing, the cardinal left the 
apartment. 

It was night, and in Friar Bacon’s study the 
faint gleam of one solitary rush-light made the deep 
shadows which lurked in every corner more ap- 
parent and more awful. The curtains which 
screened the head were withdrawn, and it loomed 
up in the dimness to a gigantic size. Bending 
over the table on which the little candle burned, 
with a manuscript spread out before him, sat 
Friar Bacon, his face worn and pinched as of one 
who suffers for want of repose and proper nour- 
ishment. 

The marks upon the hour-glass beside him 
showed that it had been turned six times since 
sunset, and the sands of the last hour before mid- 
night were swiftly slipping through the glass. 
Ever and anon the friar took up the little time- 
keeper, and shook it gently, as if to hasten the 
passage of the slow hours, and often, amid his 
watching and study, his head sank lower and 
lower towards the table, as if tired nature would 
assert her rights, and steep him in the sweet 
oblivion of sleep, against his own powerful will. 


FRIAR BACON’S BRASS HEAD. 


115 


All at once he started up, and striking a cym- 
bal with a little silver hammer, he waited till the 
summons was answered by his servant Miles, 
who came in sleepily rubbing his eyes, that he 
might be sufficiently awake to answer his 
master. 

The friar sat earnestly regarding Miles, till he 
had rubbed and stretched himself awake. 

44 Are you ready to do me a great service, 
Miles ? ” he asked at length, when the serving- 
man’s attention had been riveted by his own 
fixed gaze. 

44 Anything which thou canst ask, good mas- 
ter,” returned Miles. 44 Except it be to go on 
errands to the Evil One. That I would rather 
excuse myself from.” 

44 Such service as I require has no such con- 
ditions. Listen, Miles. Thou seest the head 
yonder?” 

Miles looked cautiously over his shoulder at 
the awful presence, and nodded assent. 

44 Thou knowest that for nine and thirty nights 
Friar Bungay and I have watched, by day and 
night, waiting to hear that which soon or late its 
lips are sure to utter. If it should speak, and 
its speech be unheeded, woe betide the makers, 
and woe betide our hopes of encircling our fair 
country with a wall which will make her forever 
invincible. To-night I have waited for Friar 


116 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Bungay, till my eyelids are heavy, and I would 
fain take a brief rest. But I dare not leave the 
head unguarded, lest in my sleep it should utter 
that which I must heed. Can I trust you to 
wait here in my sleep, and if the head gives 
signs of speech, to wake me suddenly, that I may 
follow its magical instruction ? It is but for an 

o 

hour or two, and then I will again resume my 
watch.” 

44 I will watch here as bravely as if I never 
knew what fear meant, good master,” answered 
Miles. 44 1 warrant the head will do me no harm, 
and I will repeat so many Aves and Paters that 
not a foul fiend will venture to come near me. 
So good-night and to sleep. Let me but get my 
trusty stave, which sets without, that I may arm 
myself, if any one enter to do me any hurt ; and 
in a trice I will be here to guard thy wondrous 
handiwork.” 

So saying, Miles brought in a huge bludgeon, 
which he carried on his shoulder in true soldierly 
fashion. The friar rose, and pouring a small 
glass of strong liquor from a flask, he handed it 
to Miles, saying, — 44 Drink that. It will keep 
thee from growing timorous in thy watch. Re- 
member that on thy wakefulness rests all my 
hopes, and that a moment’s slumber may wreck 
them. Good-night and Benedicite.” Thus say- 
ing, the friar, who could hardly speak from 


FRIAR BACON’S BRASS HEAD. 117 

weariness, passed through the door which led 
into a small inner chamber, where he slept. 

Miles was doubly brave from the effect of the 
potent liquor the friar had given him, which now 
seemed to course through his veins like a swift 
serpent of flame. He glanced defiantly at the 
head, which hitherto he had only regarded with 
profound awe. Withdrawing himself as far as 
possible from the mortar in which he knew his 
master was wont to mix the terrible powder, 
whose production had branded him as one in 
league with Satan, he sat down near the brazen 
image to wait for any event which would break 
up the tedium of his watch. 

The minutes before midnight moved slowly 
on, and the last sands were dropping through the 
glass. Already, in the adjoining chamber, the 
heavy breathing of the friar told how quickly 
sleep had seized upon his weary senses. 

“ Sleep away, good master,” said Miles approv- 
ingly. “ I will take as good care of matters 
here as if thou wert broad awake. For my own 
part, I see little sense in so much watching of a 
head, which for aught we know was made out of 
an old kettle or a pair of battered helmets. As for 
my master, wise as he is, he must have a crack 
in his head* piece; else, instead of starving me 
and himself on bread-crusts and spring- water, he 
would call to his aid some of the brave spirits his 


118 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

art can command, and order good smoking-hot 
meats, and wine as good as the king uses, and 
liave rich raiment and soft beds, instead of such 
poor accommodation as he keeps now. If thou 
canst tell him anything to better his conditions, 
good Master Brazen-pate,” went on Miles, look- 
ing up at the gloomy features, which in the dim 
light seemed to frown upon him, “ do so, and 
I’ll set thee up for an oracle.” 

As he spoke these last words, a low sound 
of thunder muttered through the room, and 
shook gently the pedestal on which the Head 
rested. A single flash of light lit up the immovable 
features for one brief instant, and from the lips, 
a voice scarcely louder than a whisper, yet dis- 
tinctly audible, uttered the words, — 

“ Time is ! ” 

“ Is that the beginning of your speech, old 
Brazen-nose,” said Miles, coolly regarding the 
Head as if it were the most natural thing in the 
world for it to speak thus. “Go on, I pray thee, 
and let me hear if thou intendest to say anything 
worth noting. I will not wake my master for so 
slight a matter as that thou hast just announced. 
‘ Time is,' forsooth ! as if that would be news to 
any such scholar as Friar Bacon. Thou hadst 
best speak sense if thou wouldst have him listen 
to thee.” 

Again the thunder muttered, but louder than 


• FRIAR BACON’S BRASS HEAD. 119 

at first ; again the lightning gleamed over the 
impassive features, and the voice murmured, — 

“ Time was!” 

“ On my life,” said Miles, scornfully, “ to 
think that my master and his friend should spend 
seven good years in making a head which says 
no more wonderful thing than any fishmonger 
could tell us. ‘ Time was ! 1 I am but a fool, 
and I hope I know as much as that. Why not 
say something in Greek or Latin, or any of the 
learned tongues that Master Bacon knows as 
well as he knows his breviary ? Or, if thou 
canst speak nothing but common English, tell us 
something more strange than this. Dost think 
I shall wake up my master to no better enter- 
tainment of conversation than thou hast offered 
him ? Out upon thee for a braggart, that prom- 
isest by thy looks more than thy tongue can 
ever perform for thee.” 

While he was speaking, a sudden light lit up 
the Head with a brightness like that of day. The 
terrible features wore a frown so dreadful that 
the glance struck dismay to the heart of the 
swaggering Miles. As he stood motionless, 
with awful accent and in a voice of thunder, the 
Head cried out, “ Time is past !” Then came a 
lightning flash so vivid that the serving-man fell 
prone to earth, and with a fearful crash the 
grand Head fell, a shattered mass of fragments, 
without shape or semblance. 


120 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Amidst the dire noise Friar Bacon started up 
and rushed to his doorway. At his feet was the 
work of seven years a blasted ruin. Groveling 
among the fragments lay the wretched Miles, 
uttering loud screams of fear. 

“ Peace, fool ! ” commanded the friar, raising 
him to his feet. “ Silence ! and tell me how this 
happened. Did the Head speak ? ” 

“ Aye, sir, he spake,” answered Miles, blubber- 
ing loudly. “ But he said naught worth noting. 
Didst thou not say it would utter strange words 
of learning ? Yet it said at first only two words.” 

“ What words ? ” 

“ Why, at first it said, 4 Time is,’ and I, 
knowing that was no news of consequence, 
waited for something better before I woke thee. 
Again it said, 4 Time was,’ and then with a loud 
cry it said, 4 Time is past,’ and toppled over, giv- 
ing my head many a hard bump with the frag- 
ments.” 

“ Wretch ! idiot, villain ! ” cried the friar, seiz- 
ing the frightened man, as if he would have 
strangled him. “ Thy foolishness has cost me 
the work of years, the hopes of a life-time. No 
words can reveal what thy idiocy has lost me. 
But go, leave my sight, miserable vagabond ! I 
could kill myself in shame for having trusted 
thee,” and, releasing his hold of Miles, the friar 
sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. 


FRIAR BACON’S BRASS HKAD. 121 

“ It is the last,” he murmured. “ Henceforth 
I bid farewell to magic. From this moment I 
will close my study and burn my books. Here- 
after only to religion will I devote myself, and 
dying I shall leave not even my poor name to 
add to my country’s glory.” 




MARGARET, THE FAIR MAID OF FRE SING- 
FIELD. 

(FROM ROBERT GREENE.) 

TT'ING HENRY III. was holding court in 
London and treating with ambassadors 
from Spain for the marriage of his son and heir 
with the Castilian Princess Elinor. In the 
mean time the Prince of Wales was playing 
truant in Suffolkshire, and with a troop of lords 
and courtiers, young and giddy as himself, all 
dressed in Lincoln green, was chasing the deer 
through the merry wood of Framlingham, and 
holding revels among the country rustics as if 
he had forgot that the blood of royalty ran in his 
veins. 

In the little hamlet of Fresingfield stood the 
keeper’s cottage, just on the verge of the grand 
greenwood, where only the king and his followers 
held the right to hunt. Here dwelt the royal 
keeper of the game, with his only daughter 
Margaret, who far and wide was famed as the 
44 fair daisy,” the 44 peerless pearl,” of Fresing- 
field. 


MARGARET, THE FAIR MAID OF FRESINGFIELD. 123 

One summer morn, not far from this same 
cottage, in a dewy lane, walled high with hedge 
of odorous hawthorn, two gallants reclined upon 
the grass while they held close converse. The 
one was Prince Edward, heir to the English 
crown ; the other, his friend and confidant, Ed- 
ward Lacy, Earl of Lincoln. 

“ I tell thee, Ned,” said the prince, “ she is 
the most peerless piece of loveliness that ever 
tangled my thoughts in the web of her golden 
hair.” 

“ Still harping on the rustic Margaret, my 
lord?” rejoined Lacy. “Do you, forget your 
sire is even now looking out for the ship which 
bears from Spain the dark-eyed Elinor?” 

“ I care not for her, nor all Spain beside. 
My thoughts are set on Margaret only. If 
thou hadst seen her but even now, as I did, 
Ned, working among her cream-bowls, her 
white arms bared, plunging in among the yel- 
low curds, her soft hair dropping over her rosy 
cheeks, the smile that parted her cherry lips, — 
I tell thee, Lacy, thou, like me, would be ready 
to hazard crown and head with it, to win this 
lovely maiden of Fresingfield.” 

“Not I, my lord,” laughed Lacy. “No 
woman’s glance has ever wounded my heart. 
I’ faith, though, I am sorry for thee, and I 
much fear what the king would say to thy rustic 
love.” 


124 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

“ Have I not said I care not for my father. 
It is the maid whose coyness baffles me. 
Hardly a word or look will she yield to my 
entreaties. But I have a plot, Lacy, if thou 
wilt but aid me in it.” 

“As your father’s subject I ought not, but 
as your friend, I know not how to deny you,” 
answered Lacy. 

“ Do not forget, my good Ned, that one of 
these days I shall myself be king. Let me 
whisper this wise aphorism in thine ear : If 
thy hair is not beginning to turn gray, it is 
better to win the prince’s friendship than to 
sue for the king’s favor. Now* let me unfold. 
I have told thee that the maiden herself will 
not regard me. In her coldness lies the secret 
of my slow suit. I will ride straight to Friar 
Bacon, who lives close by at Oxford. He is a 
necromancer of wondrous power. Him will I 
solicit to give me a love charm, or throw over 
Mistress Margaret a spell, which shall cause her 
to doat on me. Then farewell to court and 
courtly wedding, and here among the shades of 
Suffolk I will woo and wed an English bride, 
such as all Castile cannot match.” 

“ But what part have I in this, my lord ? ” 
asked Lacy. 

“ Ah, I forget not that. To-morrow they 
hold a fair here in Suffolk, which all the coun- 


MARGARET, THE FAIR MAID OF FRESINGFIELD. 125 

try-folk attend. Thou must go hither, attired as 
a rich farmer’s son, and for my sake keep away 
all other suitors from sweet Margaret’s side, 
while you woo her in my behalf. Buy her rich 
fairings, give her the choicest gifts, and tell her 
that the gallant dressed in Lincoln-green, who in 
her milk-rooms helped her run her cheese, sends 
all these tokens, and his heart with them. How 
sayest thou to this, Lacy ? ” 

“ That if thou wilt promise to stand betwixt 
me and thy father’s wrath in this, I will woo 
the maid for you as if I were in love with her 
myself.” 

“ Thanks ! thanks ! sweet Ned. And now I 
will to horse and ride to Oxford. Adieu. For- 
get not your promise, and by Friar Bacon’s arts 
and your wooing, I shall yet have the fairest 
bride in all England.” 

Fair little Margaret was not unconscious of 
the admiration written in all faces that looked on 
her ; and when she had attired herself for the 
day’s pleasure at Suffolk fair, it was with no 
careless disregard of her prettiness. Among 
the booths and in the fields, her track was 
followed by a train of admirers ; and even the • 
keeper’s portly presence could not fright away 
the bolder swains, who pressed close enough to 
offer her their gifts and whisper their most deli- 
cate flatteries into her ear. But all compliments 


126 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

were coarse, and all gifts waxed poor, beside the 
speeches and the offerings of one gentleman 
who followed all day, like a shadow, the steps of 
the father and daughter. Once or twice, in- 
deed, when the keeper was well-nigh lost in the 
huge pots of good ale in which he strove to 
quench the thirst and heat of the tiresome day, 
this bold gallant would walk aside with the 
maiden, plying an eager suit, at which she 
blushed, and to which she listened. 

But alas, Margaret’s heart sank, her cheek 
flushed and paled, her little foot tapped impa- 
tiently the ground on which she stayed to listen 
to his words, when the suitor explained that not 
for himself was the suit he urged, nor the gifts 
he proffered, but that a lover richer than himself, 
sent her the love these tokens denoted. 

Then she listened less willingly than at first, 
and when the gallant begged one brief meeting 
next day among the hedgerows of Fi;esing- 
field, out of safe hearing of her watchful sire, 
the maiden only half consented, and parted from 
him almost in doubt if she should keep her vague 
promise. 

Still the days waxed and waned, and the 
prince lingered in Oxford. Day after day in 
the lanes and groves of Fresingfield, the 
maiden met the gallant Lacy, and listened 
while he urged his friend’s suit. 


MARGARET, THE FAIR MAID OF FRESINGFIELD. 127 

Such was the state of affairs with both, when 
one June morning Margaret walked forth alone 
on the skirts of the forest. As she moved 
slowly along to a tryst with Lacy, which was to 
be held under the shadow of an old oak spreading 
its branches across a grassy slope, she met one 
of the friars of the monastery, whose gray towers 
she could see in the distance rising out of the 
thick greenery which encircled it. Margaret 
knew the reverend father, and had often sought 
his advice and counsel in her girlish troubles. 
Now she saw his face clouded and stern, as he 
met her gaze. 

“ Benedicite, my daughter,” he said, stopping 
in her footsteps. “ Yet before I give thee my 
benediction, let me see if thou wilt accept of 
counsel, or deservest my blessing. How hast 
thou been busy of late ? I fear other places have 
seen more of thy presence than church or con- 
fessional.” 

Margaret blushed, and as she began to answer, 
stopped, frightened at the friar ’5 stern glance. 

“ Do you know who is this gallant who has 
been so much with thee of late ? ” inquired the 
friar. 

“Yes, father. He is a rich farmer’s son, from 
Beccles, who comes here with honorable suit 
from another wealthier farmer in his own town. 
But indeed, father, I care not for the suit he 
brings, and I have often told him so.” 


128 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

“ Silly child, are you so deceived ? Know 
you not what all the town rings with ? That the 
farmer’s son is no other than Lacy, Earl of Lin- 
coln, and that his friend, for whom he sues, is 
Edward, Prince of Wales, and heir of Eng 
land?” 

“ By all a maiden’s faith, I did not know it,” 
cried Margaret in dismay. And sinking at the 
friar’s feet, she burst into such tears that even his 
cold heart was touched at her grief. 

“ Has he won you to love the prince ? ” he 
asked, bending to raise her from her knees, and 
seat her upon the knoll under the oak where 
Lacy was approaching to meet her. 

“No, no,” said Margaret sadly, “not him, — 
not the friend of the false earl. It was Lacy — 
(if it be indeed Lacy, as thou sayest) — that I 
have suffered myself to look on with such 
thoughts as now I must not think again.” 

“ Hush thy sighs,” returned the friar, under 
his breath. “ Even now the recreant earl comes 
hither. Dismiss him at once. His suit, whether 
for himself or his friend, can only bring dishonor 
to a simple maiden such as thee. Send him 
away, and forget that thou hast ever seen him ; ” 
and so saying, the priest hastily departed, leav- 
ing Lacy to draw near the maid. 

“ What ill news has found thee out, sweet 
girl ? ” asked Lacy anxiously, as he marked the 
traces of tears on her cheeks. 


MARGARET, THE FAIR MAID OF FRESINGFIELD. 129 

“No ill news, good sir,” she answered coldly. 
“ Nor aught that will be news to your ears. 
I have just learned that the Earl of Lincoln was 
here in the forest, doing injustice to his high 
rank, by hiding it under a peasant’s garb.” 

Lacy flushed, and stammered a reply. 

“ Do not deny yourself, my lord”’ said Mar- 
garet. “ I thought you were of my own rank, 
or I should never have changed so many words 
with you. And now farewell.” 

“ Stay, Margaret. Leave me not so suddenly. 
I confess I have hidden my rank from you. But 
my wooing was all in good earnest.” 

“ It was jest with you, my lord, but earnest 
with me. O ! how these gentlemen who call 
themselves noble, will flatter and feign, to wrong 
a trusting woman’s heart ! ” 

“ On my life, on my knightly honor, Margaret, 
I mean no jest. I love you. At first, indeed, I 
laughed at the charms of woman’s face and voice. 

o 

But since I saw you, everywhere, at the fair, in 
all our walks and meetings, I have loved you 
more and more. And if thou wilt, I will make 
thee the Lincoln Countess and my true and hon- 
orable wife.” 

“ Alas ! Lord Lacy, I fea£ much that pride 
will never let thee stoop so low as from thee to 
me.” 

“ Margaret, I swear by the holy rood, I am 

9 


130 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

in dear earnest. Here, at your feet, I take my 
oath. Will you be Lincoln's Countess, and 
Edward Lacy’s wife ? ” 

“ It seemeth me, Lord Lacy, you are not the 
trustiest of w r ooers. Pray tell me, sir, do you 
speak for yourself, or woo you still for the cour- 
tier clad in green. I marvel much that he 
speaks not for himself.” * 

“ A truce to thy jesting, sweet one. The 
prince may henceforth do his own wooing. 
From this time Ned Lacy has flatteries but for 
one woman, and eyes but for his bride.” 

Thus it turned out that while Prince Edward 
tarried in Oxford, Margaret was won by his un- 
trusty friend. The prince’s^ delay was not wholly 
his own fault. When he reached the colleges, 
he found the court already there, and amid the 
royal party was “ La Belle Elinor,” the Span- 
ish princess, whom the king had chosen for his 
son’s bride. 

Daily the prince had met the lovely Castilian, 
and it must be confessed her glances had some- 
■what troubled his thoughts.- But he prided him- 
self on his constancy, and resolved Lacy should 
have no cause to laugh at him. When at length 
the court left the college for the London palace, 
Edward sought to meet with Friar Bacon, before 

* These lines are almost verbatim, the words in Greene’s com- 
edy, “Honorable History of Friar Bacon.” They will recall to 
modern readers the “ Wooing of Miles Standish.” 


MARGARET, THE FAIR MAID OF FRESINGFIELD. 131 

posting back to Fresingfield to see the fair 
maiden. 

It was on the very morn in June that Lacy’s 
rank and love were revealed to Margaret that 
Edward gained admission to the abode of the 
learned friar. In his darkened room not a ray of 
sunlight made its way into the deep gloom. As 
the prince entered, he could hardly distinguish 
the stately figure of the monk as he rose and 
came forward to greet him. 

“ Welcome, my lord,” said the deep voice of 
Bacon, “ what errand has your highness, that he 
thus honors my humble cell ? ” 

“Know you my rank, good friar?” asked 
Edward, surprised at the salutation. 

“ Not only your rank, my prince, but also 
your errand. You are come to ask my aid in 
your suit with Margaret.” 

“ By heaven, this is magic indeed,” said Ed- 
ward, aghast to have his thoughts thus read be- 
fore he could tell them. “ You speak the truth. 
And since you know so much, tell me now how 
I can win the lady ? ” 

“ You have dallied too long in Oxford, my 
lord,” answered Bacon, shaking his head with a 
grave smile. “ I might have aided you at first, 
but now it is beyond my art. Already your 
friend has won her for himself.” 

“ What mean you ? ” cried Edward, turning 


132 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

pale with rage. “Not Lacy ? I would have 
staked my life on his trustiness. 5 ’ 

“Even Lacy, my lord. The witch Beauty 
has charms more potent than men’s friendship 
can hold out against. Do you wish to be made 
sure of the truth of what I have said ? ” 

“ I do desire it with all my heart,” answered 
the prince. 

No sooner had he spoken than the friar pro- 
duced from a closet in his study an oval mirror 
of polished steel resting on a standard of carved 
wood. Putting the mirror on the table he placed 
before it a silver chafing dish, containing lighted 
coals. Upon these he threw a handful of gray 
powder. At once an aromatic smoke arose from 
the dish, and wreathed itself about the mirror. 

“ Now look, and see what you may see,” said 
Bacon, motioning the prince to stand before the 
mirror. 

As Edward looked, he beheld the green forest 
of Framlingham appear in the polished surface. 
The scene grew more and more distinct, till at 
length he could see the spreading oak where 
Margaret and Lacy were wont to hold tryst ; 
then the fair maiden, and finally Lacy himself, 
were clearly visible. With angry eyes he saw 
the lovers meet, and heard, as one hears in a 
dream, the words with which they plighted troth, 
and Lacy promised to make Margaret his wife. 


MARGARET, THE FAIR MAID OF FRESINGFIELD. 133 

Inflamed with rage, Edward was hardly re- 
strained from thrusting his sword through the 
steel surface of the mirror, and as soon as he 
could leave the cell of Bacon, posted hastily back 
to Fresingfield. 

It is needless to relate how the prince con- 
fronted the happy lovers, and how he raved, 
while Margaret wept and pleaded, and Lacy 
nobly defended himself from the charge of 
treachery. At last, touched by the maiden’s 
tears, and moved perhaps by the remembrance 
of the dark eyes of Elinor, which, in the brief 
space he had seen her, had turned on him more 
tender glances than he had ever been able to 
win from Margaret’s blue orbs, Edward forgave 
his friend and blessed the lovers in true princely 
style. 

And now Margaret is the betrothed bride of 
Lincoln’s earl, and happier in such happiness 
than if Edward had made her queen. The two 
gentlemen agree to ride together to London, 
where Edward has resolved to signify to his 
father his readiness to marry the princess. Lacy 
will seek the king’s consent to his marriage with 
Margaret, which, in the king’s good humor at 
Edward’s nuptials, he doubts not will be given. 
As for loving Margaret, she stays in sunny 
Fresingfield, shaping rich stuffs into fair gar- 
ments, and with apt fingers weaving dainty 


134 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

broideries in fine linen, all of which shall be fit 
wearing for the Countess of Lincoln. 

Her hand was sought by many of her own 
rank, when Lacy’s absence left the field clear 
to suitors. Her father pressed a little some of 
these suits, fearing wisely that Lord Lacy’s fancy 
may be brief. But Margaret’s heart rested in 
perfect faith in her lover ; and she has no ear for 
any other suit. 

One day, walking near the wood, she beheld a 
page, wearing the green livery of Lincoln, post- 
ing hastily to her father’s cottage. Margaret 
hastened to meet him in the path, and craved to 
know what news he bore from Lacy. 

“ If you are the fair maid of Fresingfield,” 
answered the youth, “ I have a letter for thee, 
and a purse beside.” 

Margaret seized the letter, and breaking the 
seal, read these words which stained the fair 
paper : — 

“ Margaret, the blossoms of the almond tree 
grow in a night and vanish in a morn ; the 
butterfly’s wings shine in the sun, and are 
broken in the first dew. So my love for thee 
would not outlive our parting. Know that I 
have chosen a Spanish lady for my wife, a wait- 
ing woman to Princess Elinor; a lady fair, and 
no less fair than thyself, rich and of noble blood. 


MARGARET, THE FAIR MAID OF FRES1NGFIELD. 135 

I leave tliee to thy liking, and have sent thee this 
purse of gold to thy dowry. Farewell. Neither 
thine or his own, Edward Lacy.” 

Cruel, cruel words for trusting; Margaret to 
read from the letter whose seal was still warm 
with her kisses. Proudly she crushed the 
traitorous paper under her foot, and pushing back 
the purse of gold he proffered, she turned to the 
page. 

“ Take back the gold thou hast brought, good 
youth, and tell Lord Lacy that no one can re- 
joice more than I do that his wavering fancy is 
at rest, and that I wish him all happiness. For 
myself, I have done with false vows and falser 
lovers, and to-morrow’s sun will see me safe in 
the walls of Framlingham Convent, where I will 
be sworn at once a holy nun.” 

Margaret’s resolve once taken, neither the 
grief nor the entreaties of her father could move 
her from it. On such a summer’s day as the one 
when, under the greenwood shades, Lacy had 
confessed his rank and asked her to be his wife, 
she set out for the Nunnery of Framlingham. 
The mossy towers of the convent, rising through 
the trees, and the dewy shades of the forest, 
made a picture no less fair than before. But to 
Margaret’s eyes a shadow was over all the day, 
and there was no beauty for her even in the 


136 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

fairest tilings of earth. Henceforth her thoughts 
shall only be fixed on death and objects of sol- 
emn interest. 

As she muses thus, slowly treading the little 
path where she had often strayed with her re- 
creant lover, the tramp of horse’s feet broke on 
the -wood’s stillness. Their clatter reached even 
her abstracted ears. Looking up with a start, 
she beheld standing in her path, with steed 
smoking with the haste with which they rode, 
Lord Lacy, and his friend Lord Ernsby, a blunt 
old soldier, whose face Margaret has once before 
seen. 

In a trice Lacy leaps from his horse, and 
kneeling at her feet, he seizes the hand which 
she endeavors to withhold from his grasp. 

“ Am I too late, Margaret ? ” he cries. “ I 
have ridden with all speed to stop thy purpose. 
The letter was but a jest to try thy constancy. 
No word of it was true. Speak to me, sweet 
one : thou wilt not be a nun? ” 

“ My lord, I am even now on my way to 
Framlingliam. There shall I shortly take the 
sacred vows. Your letter has killed my heart. 
It is forever dead to love. Let me go, my lord. 
Seek not to trouble my thoughts, which now are 
fixed on things above the earth.” 

“ Forgive me, Margaret, and take back your 
vows. You will not for a jest (I confess a cruel 


MARGARET, THE FAIR MAID OF FRESINGFIELD. 13T 

jest) take your favor from me. You cannot, for 
a jest, give up my love and me. Even now the 
prince delays his nuptials with Elinor, that thou 
and I may grace them together.” 

44 Too late, Lord Lacy. Better heaven’s 
glories than earth’s fading joys. Leave me, I 
beseech you, and trouble my repose no more.” 

Lacy, fearful of her long denial, turned an im- 
ploring look to Ernsby. 

44 Come, come,” said that bluff old soldier. 
44 Think well of it, maiden. The time is but 
short, and we soldiers are not patient. You can 
not mean your words. Exchange the pleasures 
of the court for a grave nunnery ? Choose now. 
Heaven or Lord Lacy, which contents you best? 
To be a nun, or be Lord Lacy’s wife ? ” 

Margaret’s resolution wavered, and seeing her 
hesitation, Lacy again threw himself at her feet. 

44 You will forgive the cruel trial of your faith,” 
he pleaded. 

44 The heart is weak, my lord,” said Margaret, 
44 and when you come with your beguiling voice, 
,you know well I cannot say you nay.” 

So ends our story amid the rapture of wedding 
bells, which chime all over London. Our last 
glimpse of our rustic daisy is in the splendor of 
the court, beside the lovely Princess Elinor, who 
thanks the Earl of Lincoln, that he has given her 
as chief attendant, his new-made Countess, the 
44 fair star of Fresingfield.” 



SKETCH OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 

I N tlie year 1564, a little more than three 
hundred years ago, an infant was born in 
the town of Stratford, in England, who grew to 
be one of the most wonderful men who has ever 
lived. Stratford was a quiet little town on the 
banks of the river Avon, and none of the peo- 
ple there were very rich or grand. The child 
of whom we write was called Will Shakespeare ; 
and though his father was a very respectable man 
and in thriving business, it does not appear that 
he was rich, and, what seems hard to believe 
nowadays, he did not know how to write even 
his own name. 

It is not very likely that John Shakespeare, 
Will’s father, thought very much of learning, 
since he had got along so well himself with so 
little, and it does not seem that Will had much 
encouragement to study. But no doubt he was 
one of those boys to whom everything in Nature 
is a teacher. He could find — 

“ Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 

Sermons in stones, and good in everything.” 


SKETCH OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 139 


He went to the parish school for a short time 
and learned English, some scraps of Greek and 
Latin, and a little mathematics. He read 
everything, too, which came within his eager 
grasp. 

Of course there were not as many books made 
in many years then as are printed now every year 
in New York; hut there were places in London 
where were published little pamphlets in paper 
covers, which were sold quite cheaply for the 
times. These tracts, or pamphlets, were gen- 
erally translations from French and Italian tales, 
or legends, chronicles extracted from old English 
history, and sometimes translations from Greek 
or Latin poetry. These books, which look very 
coarse and rude in their paper and printing, if 
we see them to-day and compare them with our 
beautiful books, were the popular reading of the 
people of that age. They were called chap- 
books (cheap- books), and the men who sold them 
were chap-men , which is the same, very likely, 
as our word shop-man . 

It is very probable that some of these books 
found their way to Stratford, and that little Will 
Shakespeare occasionally got one to read. Per- 
haps some travelling peddler, who came there to 
sell his wares, had a few such stray copies ia 
his pack, or the parish schoolmaster may have 
owned a few odd volumes. What a delight it 


140 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

must have been to Will to get such prizes into 
his possession, and to go off to read by himself. 
When by chance he may have have obtained 
the wonderful poem of “ Romeus and Juliet,” * 
how glad he must have been to carry it off 
with him to the shade of some clustering trees, 
through which the lovely river Avon flowed, 
and there to read it aloud till he wept at the 
cruel fate of the two lovers. 

All these things, however, must be partly 
guessed at, for no one dreamed that this boy 
would become so great a poet, and no one of 
that day has taken the trouble to tell us any- 
thing about him when he was a child. He lived 
in Stratford till he was about eighteen, and then 
he married a farmer’s daughter in the neigh- 
borhood, named Anne Hathaway. She was a 
young woman much older than himself, and no 
doubt it was a foolish act of his to marry so 
young. It is to be feared he found it hard work 
to take care of his family, for in two or three 
years after his marriage he set out for the great 
city of London, like a boy in a fairy tale, to seek 
his fortune. And a wonderful fortune it was, — 
greater than Dick Whittington’s, or that of any 
other unfriended youth who ever came, solitary 
and unknown, to a great busy city. 

When he got to London he found that nearly 

* Written by Arthur Brooke, printed in 1662. 


SKETCH OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 141 


everybody in the town was interested in the 
theatre. The Queen and her court often went 
to see the plays. Some of the rich noblemen 
kept a large company of players for their private 
amusement; and many of the most elegant and 
accomplished men of that time wrote plays which 
were performed in the theatres. 

Of course Shakespeare heard of all these 
things, and so he haunted the doors to the play- 
house, hoping to get a peep at the wonders inside. 
It has been said that he even held horses outside 
the building for some of the gallant gentlemen 
and courtiers who went in to see the play, and 
that he did his work so well, and had at last so 
many horses to hold, that he hired other youths 
to help him, and shared with them the pennies 
and sixpences which he received. This could 
not have lasted long, for he soon joined a com- 
pany of players, and commenced in a very 
humble way to be an actor. One of the comic 
actors, in the company which he joined, was a 
fellow-townsman of his, and he may have been 
instrumental in getting Will a place among 
the players. It was not long after he had 
become an actor that he commenced writing 
plays. 

These plays of Shakespeare are the most won- 
derful of anything in the English language. 
They were so great that the people of that age 


142 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

hardly understood their value, and it was only 
after a century had passed that they began to be 
appreciated. Out of some of the old tales and 
legends which he had heard, the lowly bred 
country youth wove the most exquisite tissues of 
poetry and romance that the world has ever read. 
The forgotten creatures of some Italian story be- 
came like living, real people by the magic of his 
pen. 

He stayed in the theatre a good many years. 
During that time he wrote about forty plays, 
and as he seems to have been more prudent and 
saving than most poets have been, he became 
quite prosperous and well off in worldly mat- 
ters. He bought a share of the play-house, and 
for some years was manager of it. When he 
was a little past middle age he retired to a com- 
fortable estate in his native town of Stratford, 
and there he died when he was just fifty-two 
years old. 

The first of the stories from Shakespeare 
which I have to tell you has its principal scenes 
laid in fairy-land, and is called — 

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. 

The king and queen of the fairies had quar- 
reled, and all fairy-land was in the dumps. 
Queen Titania sat pouting all day in her most 
retired bower, and would hardly stir abroad for 


A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. 143 


fear of meeting King Oberon ; while he, at- 
tended by the mischief-loving Puck, spent his 
time in devising plots to tease his dainty con- 
sort. 

Thus it was that the dew forgot to fall ; the 
fairy circles, no longer used for moonlight rev- 
els, had overgrown with rank weeds ; the thick 
air breathed pestilent vapors ; the moon shone 
with watery light ; and all the months, missing 
their guardian fairies, were out of humor, so that 
stately August wept like changeful April, and 
merry May was as rude and boisterous as 
March. 

The cause of the quarrel was trifling enough. 
Titania had a changeling, — one of those charm- 
ing earth children whom the elves sometimes 
steal from their cradles, leaving in their stead 
some sprite from fairy-land, to tease the human 
parents with its goblin ways. Only Titania had 
not stolen this earth child, who was her charge. 
It was the offspring of an Indian princess who 
had died ; and dying, preferred to give her boy 
to the fairy queen, rather than leave it to the 
mercies of the cold world. So Titania kept him 
tenderly, and loved him as dearly as if he were a 
fairy. But Oberon, who was both jealous and ex- 
acting, — as much so as an earth-born lord, — saw 
the boy, and coveted him to be his cup-bearer, 
to bring him dew in flower-cups, or to gather 


144 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

him sweets from the heavy loaded cups of the 
wild honeysuckle. In truth, he was envious of 
the caresses Titania lavished on the dimpled, 
frolicsome little fellow, and wanted to take him 
from her. And as she steadily refused, they got 
to so grave a pass, that they had not been on 
speaking terms for months. 

To make it more unfortunate, some splendid 
wedding festivities were preparing, which needed 
all the combined good taste of the king and 
queen of fairy-land, to be celebrated properly. 

Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, — she who 
wore on her round, supple arm, a shield worthy 
of the stoutest warrior ; who, with bared shoul- 
der, white as dazzling snow, went out to war 
against the mighty Theseus, Duke of Athens ; 
and, being conquered by him, conquered in her 
turn, so that the warrior yielded, and laid all his 
arms under her buskined foot, — Hippolyta was 
to be married to this very Theseus. 

Already were the nuptial train come to 
Athens, to the grand palace of the Duke. 
Among them were Demetrius and Lysander, 
two Grecian knights, who had borne arms with 
Duke Theseus. Demetrius, a fickle gallant, who 
had, before this, wooed the blue-eyed Helena, 
now had turned his ready flatteries to the un- 
willing ear of nut-brown Hermia, the only 
daughter of the old Egeus. But Hermia scorned 


A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. 


145 


with all her might his suit, and loved instead the 
young Ly sander, tall * and fair-haired. Alas for 
these two lovers ! old Egeus did not like his 
daughter's choice, but favored the suit of Deme- 
trius, and would not let Hermia marry where she 
wished. 

In these happy days of fairies and Amazons, 
it faired ill with lovers whose fathers were not 
of their minds, for the maiden who loved so un- 
wisely, had but three alternatives, — either to 
wed a man of her father’s choice, or to be put to 
death, or to retire into the order of Diana’s 
priestesses, and forever adjure marriage. In her 
desperation, Hermia appealed to Theseus, who 
could do nothing but quote the law, and Egeus 
bore her home in triumph, swearing she should 
wed Demetrius ; — not till she had spoken a few 
secret words to Ly sander, though, and in these 
brief words, Hermia agreed to run away that 
night to a wood near Athens, and there, meeting 
with Lysander, they were to fly to some happier 
clime for lovers. 

Helena, the neglected love of Demetrius, was 
the dearest friend of Hermia, and to her did she 
confide her intended flight. And Helena, who 
was glad to gain a minute’s speech with her ren- 
egade lover, even though he unblushingly scorned 
her, and praised Hermia in her presence, went 
very perfidiously and told Demetrius of the plot 
10 


146 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

of the two lovers, and the wood where they were 
to meet. 

In one of the fairy circles of this wood, near 
Athens, Oberon met, at eventide, his ready fol- 
lower, the goblin Puck, whose merry pranks had 
set all the country round in an uproar. He it 
was who had stolen the thick cream from flow- 
ing pans ; had plaited elf-locks in the tresses of 
the maids ; had charmed the churn so that it 
would not yield its stores of yellow butter to the 
vexed housewife, and was the eager furtherer of 
all sorts of mischief. Now he waited to do the 
bidding of the angry Oberon. 

The fairy king told him of a magic flower, pur- 
ple in hue, which grew in rare places, known to 
none but himself, of which the juice, squeezed 
upon the sleeping eyes of lovers, should compel 
them to doat upon whomever their first waking 
glance should fall on. He would squeeze some 
of this fateful juice on the drowsy lids of Titania 
when she slept in her bower close by, and place 
before her some hideous monster whom her 
waking eyes should fix upon, and, so enchanted, 
should love. Then the scheming Oberon would 
obtain Titania’s changeling while she was en- 
grossed with this new passion, and, after that, 
release her from this injurious spell. Instructed 
how to find it, Puck sped on fleet wings after the 
flower. 


A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. 147 


While Oberon stood awaiting his return, De- 
metrius entered the wood in pursuit of the lov- 
ers, of whose flight Helena had told him. Close 
following him, struggling, with her delicate feet, 
to keep up with his striding pace, came the silly 
Helena. In vain she implored him to look back 
and see how her tired feet were bleeding from 
the rude thorn bushes. He answered her with 
anger, and flouted her for loving him. Then 
she reminded him how once he thought her blue 
eyes the sweetest ever seen, as now he praised 
the sparkling glances of Hermia. 

So they passed by the listening Oberon into 
the deepening shadows of the forest. 

When Puck returned, bearing the purple 
flower, Oberon divided it, and bade him seek 
two lovers in Athenian garb, and weave them in 
a magic web of slumber, and then, anointing 
with its juice the eyelids of the scornful lover, 
make him doat upon the maid who followed him. 
Then the king hid himself to witness Titania’s 
hour of retiring. 

As twilight deepened, the fairy train came in. 
Titania rode in high state. “ Her chariot was an 
empty hazel-nut ; the cover, of the wings of grass- 
hoppers ; the traces, of the smallest spider’s web ; 
her whip, of cricket’s bone ; the lash, of film ; ” 
and her coachman was a small gnat, in gray liv- 
ery slashed with gold lace, who sat erect and 


148 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

dignified on his tiny box, as proud as any coach- 
man could be of his gay turn-out. When her 
footman had helped the queen to alight, and she 
was ready to seek her couch, all respectfully re- 
tired, except only a few attendants who were to 
lull her to rest. Her bed was a hammock of web- 
lace, woven by a spider of great repute, who fur- 
nished all the royal laces. It was hung on the 
thorns of a sweet-brier, and swayed to and fro 
in the soft breezes, as she lay dreamily within. 
Then, daintily tucked up in rose leaves, her eyes 
shut together to the music of this fairy lullaby, — 

“ You spotted snakes, with double tongue, 

Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ; 

Newts and blind worms, do no wrong ; 

Come not near our fairy queen. 

Chorus. — Philomel, with melody 

Sing in our sweet lullaby; 

Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby; 

Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, 

Come our lovely lady nigh ; 

So good-night, with lullaby.” 

When her rosy lids had lightly closed, all the 
attending fairies went to their beds in flower- 
cups, and Oberon,with stealthy step, approached, 
and dropped some of the baleful juice upon her 
eyes. 

J ust at twilight, at the hour agreed on, Lysan- 
der met Hermia on the borders of the forest. 
He had planned to take his lady-love to the pro- 


A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. 


149 


tection of an annt of his, who lived in a place not 
subject to the laws of Athens, and who would 
not refuse her aid to their unhappy love. But 
unfortunately, night overtook them wandering in 
the mazes of the forest ; and, tired with their 
flight, they lay down at the foot of some old 
trees, at a little distance from each other, to 
sleep. Thus Puck, skirting the forest in search 
of the Athenians his master had described, came 
upon them, and stopped to gaze. The rosy 
cheek of Hermia pressed the moss-covered earth 
which was her pillow, and her breast rose and 
fell with the deep breath of slumber. Near by 
lay Lysander, with his drawn sword by his side, 
ready to protect his love from any danger. He 
also slept a deep, unconscious sleep. 

The obedient Puck fancied* this was the un- 
happy lady whose love was scorned by the Athe- 
nian knight, and squeezed the purple flower upon 
Lysander’s eyelids. This would have wrought 
no harm if, a moment after, Helena had not hap- 
pened to pass that way, still in search of Deme- 
trius ; and awaking at her footstep, Lysander 
first fixed his eyes on her. Under the influence 
of the fatal charm, he forgot his loyalty, forgot 
the sleeping Hermia, and poured forth protesta- 
tions of love to Helena. She, imagining Lysan- 
der did but mock her, ran away, and lie pur- 
sued, leaving Hermia forgotten on the damp 


150 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

That self-same evening, in another part of this 
same wood, a party of mechanics, some of the 
hard-handed men of Athens, had met to rehearse 
a play which they hoped to perform at the 
Duke’s nuptial festivities. 

There was Flute, the bellows-mender ; Star- 
veling, the tailor ; Snout, the tinker ; Quince, 
the carpenter ; and among the rest, stout old 
Bottom, the weaver, — Bully Bottom, as his 
comrades called him. He was, in his own con- 
ceit, the best actor of them all ; the best for 
tragedy, comedy, or tragical comical. “ Seneca 
was not too heavy, nor Plautus too light,” for 
old Bottom, and he would have taken all parts in 
the play at once, with great cheerfulness. 

These jolly fellows had rehearsed their play, 
and Bottom, in Ins character of lover, had spoken 
all the tender speeches to Flute, the bellows- 
mender, who was to play the lady of the piece, 
when Puck entered. His love for sport was 
never quiet; so, when he saw poor Bottom a 
little separated from his companions, he fixed on 
his shoulders an ass’s head, with long ears. This 
odd head-dress fitted the self-satisfied weaver so 
well, that he wore it without dreaming he had 
anything unusual on his head. But his amazed 
companions ran away at the strange sight, cry- 
ing out that Bottom was certainly enchanted. 
Alas for Titania ! This noise awoke her ; and, 


A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. 151 

rising from her bed, she beheld the stout figure 
of Bottom thus frightfully crowned. To see 
was only to love, because her lids were heavy 
with the charmed flower-juice, and she alighted 
from her swaying couch, and ran quickly to the 
weaver. 

Then, with sweet words and delicate caresses, 
the tiny queen led the huge monster to her 
bower, and summoned her attendant fairies to do 
him reverence. The astonished weaver yielded 
himself up to the strange enchantment, and 
the elves, hovering about him, prepared to do 
his bidding, as their gracious mistress had de- 
sired. 

When Hermia awoke from her deep slumber, 
and missed Lysander, she was seized with the 
greatest affright. Starting up, she ran wildly 
through the forest, till she encountered Deme- 
trius, and accused him of slaying her lost 
lover, that he might have no rival to her love. 
When Demetrius denied this, she ran on, call- 
ing, in agonizing tones, upon her lost Lysander. 
Oberon saw their meeting, heard his tender 
words to Hermia, and remembering how Deme- 
trius had scorned sweet Helena, he saw that 
Puck had not yet anointed his eyes with the 
flower. So, throwing the knight into an en- 
chanted sleep, he sprinkled some drops from the 
flowers upon his eyelids, and went off to lead 


152 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

in Helena. Soon she came to the tree undei 
which Demetrius lay sleeping. Close after her 
came the recreant Lysander, besieging her with 
vows of love. Then Demetrius, awaking, saw 
before him the lady he had scorned, and falling 
at her feet, he begged forgiveness. Lysander 
opposed his passion, and offered to relinquish 
Hermia to him. But now Demetrius refused 
her, and declared only Helena had had, and 
should have, his heart and his allegiance. The 
puzzled Helena knew not what to believe. 
Could they be playing on her foolish fondness ? 
So she stood incredulous, longing, yet fearing to 
believe in the protestations of Demetrius, when 
Hermia approached. She, poor little one, see- 
ing Lysander again, was flying to him, all tears 
and smiles, when he repulsed her with fury, 
called her harsh names, and bade her leave him, 
since he no longer cared for her. Then the 
unhappy maiden saw both her former lovers at 
Helena’s feet, contending for Helena’s smiles, 
as, one little hour ago, they had quarreled for 
her favor. 

She could not restrain the rage which she felt 
against Helena at this sight. That this pale- 
faced, dove-eyed girl, who had been her friend, 
— her sister almost, — who had shared her child- 
ish games and girlish confidences, should now 
become her rival in Lysander’s love, should have 


A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. 153 


beguiled him with her tall figure, her grace, and 
her sweet, pleading manners, was too much. 
She would gladly have resigned Demetrius to 
her, but that she should come, like a thief, to 
steal her loved Lysander, was too bitter to be 
borne. So she upbraids her fiercely ; and 
Helena, seeing her jealousy, can no longer 
doubt the sincerity of her two lovers. 

Fortunately, Oberon, invisible, heard this dis- 
pute, and angrily summoning Puck, he accused 
him of making all this mischief. He bade him 
lead the two knights, who have already drawn 
their swords to combat for the possession of Hel- 
ena, through bogs and tangled pathways, by his 
magic arts, till, wearied by such tiresome travel, 
they should sink to sleep again. Then, by put- 
ting a new love-charm on Lysander’s eyes, he 
should be made to return to his loyalty and 
Hermia’s love. 

Obeying Oberon’s commands, the nimble Puck 
flitted through bush and brake, now calling De- 
metrius in one direction with the voice of Lysan- 
der, and anon summoning Lysander an opposite 
way with the tongue of Demetrius, so that the 
two gentlemen, pursuing the sounds, floundered 
in bogs, and tore through briers, till it was near 
morning. Then, one after the other, Puck led 
all the four lovers through the- thick darkness of 
the wood, to the group of gnarled trees, where 


154 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Lysander and Hermia first reclined to rest. 
There each lay down to sleep, unconscious that 
the others were so near. Whilst they slept. 
Puck bedewed the eyes of Lysander with a new 
charm that Oberon had given him, which should 
heal his sick fancy, and turn him again to Her- 
mia. 

So, at early morning, when Duke Theseus 
and Hippolvta sallied out with their hounds and 
horns to hunt in this forest, they came upon the 
four, sleeping thus upon the ground. So 
steeped in slumber were they, that a full blast 
of horns could scarcely rouse them. But in 
waking, Lysander’ s eyes seek Hermia first, and 
all the memory of this sudden gust of fancy for 
Helena is as a troubled and uncertain dream. 
While Demetrius, professing penitence for his 
inconstancy to Helena, claimed her as his first 
and dearest love, and begged Theseus that their 
nuptials might be celebrated at the same time 
with his. 

The old Egeus consenting, Lysander takes 
Hermia, and Demetrius his gentle Helena, and 
all the lovers return to the palace. 

’Twas now the day of the nuptial festivities, 
and Oberon began to repent himself of his cru- 
elty to Titania. In the shadiest nook of the 
dewy forest, the tiny queen had had a bower 
woven for Bottom, and sat there beside him, 


A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. 155 


crowning his misshapen head with the rarest and 
most fragrant flowers. All around him, at her 
command, were her most delicate attendants, — 
the white-robed Moth, the graceful Peaseblos- 
som, the aerial Cobweb, and the pert little Mus- 
tard-seed, all fairies of noble birth and royal 
manners. These brought him dews from vio- 
lets’ eyes, the overflowing sacs of the honey- 
bee, and the sweetest nut-kernels from the 
squirrels’ hoard. Even Oberon could not look 
on such a sight without relenting ; and when he 
asked for and obtained the changeling boy from 
Titania, he awaited eagerly the time for her 
noontide nap. As soon as she was asleep, he 
applied to her eyes the charmed herb which 
would cure her of her unnatural passion. Then 
he bade Puck remove the monstrous head from 
Bottom’s shoulders, who, being released from 
this enchantment, went quickly home to join his 
companions, and study over his part in the play, 
which must be performed that night before the 
Duke. 

When evening came, the Amazon Queen and 
the two Grecian maidens were led as brides to 
Hymen’s altar, gayly decorated with offerings 
of flowers. Neither mortals nor fairies were 
then lacking in respect to the joyous occasion. 
While the clumsy but well-meaning artisans 
made the wedding-train laugh at their tragedy 


156 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

in the great hall of the palace, the fairies trooped 
it overhead in the bridal chambers, scattering 
sweet perfumes and invoking blessings on the 
houses of the newly wedded pairs. 




THE STORY OF PERDITA. 

A WINTER NIGHT’S TALE. 

(FROM SHAKESPEARE.) 

1 1 1HERE had been much feasting and merry- 
making in the palace at Sicily for several 
months, while the king of Bohemia had been a 
guest there. Leontes, the king of the Sicilian 
dominions, and Polixenes of Bohemia, had for 
many years been fast friends, and loved each 
other very dearly. When they were young 
princes, unused to the cares that wait upon a 
crown, they had been reared together in the 
same palace ; had hunted and fished and played 
games together like any school-bovs of ignoble 
blood ; and when years passed away, and each 
became ruler over distant kingdoms, they had 
not forgotten their boyish love, but kept a place 
in their hearts still fresh and green with the 
memory of the old friendship. 

Only a few years before, Leontes had visited 
his friend in Bohemia ; and now Polixenes had 
come to be entertained in Sicily. Polixenes had 
left behind him in his palace his wife, and his 


158 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

young prince Florizel, whom report spoke of as a 
promising boy. Leontes had for wife the most 
refined and beautiful princess of all Europe, and 
she had borne him one child, Mamillius, a pre- 
cocious boy, to whom the hearts of both parents 
clung in doting fondness. 

Leontes was a man of hasty temper and strong 
passions, quick in his judgments, and prone to 
make mistakes, for which he was bitterly accused 
by his conscience. ' He loved his queen with all 
the strength of his uneven and fitful nature. 
And Hermione — this was the queen — was so 
gentle and so yielding, that the sway of imperi- 
ous Leontes seemed light and easy to her, and 
she loved him with her whole tender heart. She 
shared her husband’s interest in the coming of 
his royal friend, and had striven, since his ar- 
rival, to entertain him by her sweetness and 
grace of conversation ; by the beauty of her sing- 
ing, which was reputed marvelous; and by all 
the sweet womanly charms she could use as 
hostess and queen. So Polixenes found the 
time pass most pleasantly in the Sicilian palace. 

But there were also affairs in Bohemia to be 
looked after. Merry-making is delightful, but 
even kings are slaves to their business, and Po- 
lixenes began to feel uneasy at tarrying, and 
announced to Leontes the day of his intended 
leave-taking. But with even more than wonted 


THE STORY OF PERDITA. 


159 


vehemence he pressed his guest to stay longer. 
Polixenes refused firmly. He must indeed, 
within a day or two, set out for Bohemia. 

Now, in the ill-balanced brain of Leontes, a fear- 
ful thought had been growing up, — a thought 
at first rejected, with contempt for himself 
in imagining so base a thing, but which, having 
once come into his mind, would constantly come 
creeping back again. He had feared that his 
wife — his good and true Hermione — was too 
fond of Polixenes, and that he also had begun to 
return her feeling. So he urged Polixenes thus 
ardently to prolong his visit, that he might see 
if he had any ground for his suspicions. When 
he found that the Bohemian king would not be 
persuaded to stay, he called in Hermione to 
second his entreaties, and bade her ask his friend 
to remain. The queen came, and ready to give 
her husband pleasure, since she thought he had 
no motive but the gratification of his friendship, 
she urged Polixenes so prettily to stay, she plead 
so volubly when he tried to make excuses for 
his departure, that all his farewells were drowned 
in her persuasions, and at last he was forced to 
be silent from sheer breathlessness, and in default 
of words, to stay another week at Sicily. 

But Leontes, — miserable Leontes! In his 
wife’s innocent desire to please him, he had im- 
agined he saw a reluctance to let Polixenes go 


160 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

away from her ; and cherishing those suspicions, 
all that was good in him was turned to gall and 
bitterness, and his heart was torn by jealousy 
and rage. 

In this state of feeling he left the company of 
his friend and Hermione, and sought out Ca- 
millo, — one of his nobles, — whom he had ap- 
pointed chief cup-bearer to Polixenes while he 
was his guest. Camillo was a man of probity 
and honor, very discreet and wise in judgment, 
— the very antipodes of the easily moved and 
tumultuous Leontes. To him the king unfolded 
his suspicions, and while he listened, dumb with 
grief and wonder, he desired him to poison the 
wine of Polixenes, that he might die of his first 
draught. 

Camillo knew the king well enough to know 
that it was useless to stem the current of his 
madness, and he contented himself with asking 
him to dissemble his feelings for a short time, 
and promised him to undertake the murder of 
the king of Bohemia. Then Leontes left him, a 
little calmed and satisfied. 

Camillo felt a momentary struggle between 
his loyalty to the king his master and his sense 
of honor and humanity. On the one side was 
his personal safety, his ambition, all the motives 
that selfishness could urge ; on the other hand, 
if he yielded to humanity, and spared Polixenes, 


THE STORY OF PERDITA. 


161 


he knew not but the anger of Leontes might fall 
on him to such an extent as to strip him of his 
possessions, his title, or even take his life. But 
the hesitation of Camillo was brief, and he 
hastened to Polixenes to warn him of the king’s 
intention against him. 

The king of Bohemia was horrified that Le- 
ontes could suspect him of such baseness as to 
endeavor to win the affections of his wife, and 
wounded to the heart when he heard how Ca- 
millo had been instructed by his friend to have 
him foully poisoned. Flight seemed to him the 
only possible escape from the anger of the king, 
who he knew was unreasonable in his passions. 
Besides, in his absence he thought the wrath of 
Leontes would cool, and he would soon be con- 
vinced of the folly of his suspicions. The good 
Camillo offered to go back with him to Bohemia, 
since he did not care to stay and breast the 
king’s wrath ; and Polixenes, in gratitude, gladly 
accepted his attendance, and promised to reward 
him for his fidelity. 

They set out immediately as secretly as pos- 
sible. Polixenes had almost as much influence 
in the city as the king himself, and all the gates 
were opened for him without any demur, so that 
he got out with all his attendants, embarked in 
his ships, and was out at sea before Leontes dis- 
covered it. When he did hear of his friend’s 
11 


162 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

departure, and seeking out Camillo, found he 
also had gone, the fury of Leontes burst all 
bounds. For he thought he saw, in their hurried 
departure, proof that Polixenes had been guilty, 
and that Camillo had been all the time in his 
confidence. 

He instantly went, all inflamed with rage, to 
the apartment of queen Hermione, tore her child, 
the prince Mamiliius, from her embrace, and 
ordered her to be cast into prison. The poor 
lady could hardly speak a word of defense, she 
was so overcome with sorrow and astonishment, 
but what she did say was full of dignity and 
mild reproach. 

Every one in the whole court was in sympathy 
with Hermione. The lords and ladies all be- 
lieved in her goodness and virtue, and some of 
them did not scruple to tell Leontes he had done 
wrong. The king never heard so much plain 
speaking in all his life as in the first two or three 
days after her imprisonment. 

After Hermione had been a few days in 
prison, a beautiful little daughter was born to 
her, — a sweet babe, which filled the dull old 
prison where she lay with light and beauty. 
Poor Hermione could only weep over the dear 
little creature, and did not feel much consolation 
from its angelic presence, since her husband had 
taken his favor from her. 


THE STORY OF PERDITA. 


163 


One of the ladies of Hermione — her name 
was Paulina — who was very fearless and out- 
spoken, declared she would take the babe to Le- 
ontes to see if the sight of it would not move his 
heart to pity. So, with the infant in her arms, 
she pushed her way through the attendants who 
surrounded the king, and knelt at his feet, hold- 
ing up the child. Leontes looked wonder-struck 
at her audacity, and told Antigonus, the husband 
of Paulina, who was among the lookers-on, to 
take his wife away. But Antigonus, though a 
brave man and a soldier, dared not oppose his 
wife when she was doing what she thought right, 
and he did not move even at the king’s orders. 
Paulina, having the king at her mercy, rated 
him with a sharp tongue, and told him to take 
up his innocent child and let his wronged wife 
be set free. All this time the baby lay smiling 
up in its father’s face, while the lords around lis- 
tened to Paulina, secretly glad of the way in 
which she talked to the king. 

Leontes only grew more angry, and said the 
child should die. When every one plead for its 
life, however, he changed his purpose, and said, 
since Antigonus was so interested in the child, 
he should take it away from his dominions, to 
some remote or desert place, and leave it there, 
exposed to chance or the mercy of the elements. 
So Antigonus bade farewell to Paulina, and tak- 


164 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

ing the infant, which was furnished with a purse 
of gold, some jewels of her mother’s, and a sup- 
ply of rich clothing, he took a ship and set sail 
from Sicily. 

Leontes then resolved to send a messenger to 
the oracle at Delphi, to ask about Hermione, 
and if Polixenes had loved her, and promised he 
would abide by the decision of the oracle. Some 
messengers were accordingly dispatched for Del- 
phi. All this while Hermione was languishing 
in prison. When the day arrived on which the 
answer was expected, Leontes had a court assem- 
bled, over which he sat in judgment in his regal 
robes. Poor Hermione, weak and pale from re- 
cent illness, was brought before him in the state 
of a prisoner. She never showed to better ad- 
vantage than in her patient endurance of her 
wrongs, and the hearts of all the spectators went 
out to her. Then the messengers, who had trav- 
elled with great speed, came into court with the 
sealed answer of Apollo. The officer of the 
court opened it, and read these words : — 

“ Hermione is chaste ; Polixenes blameless ; 
Camillo a true subject ; Leontes a jealous tyrant ; 
the innocent babe truly begotten , and the king shall 
live without an heir , if that which is lost is not 
found .” 

At this every one was overjoyed. Never had 
an oracle spoken more plainly or more to the 


THE STORY OF PERDITA. 


165 


purpose. But mad Leontes, angry even with 
the gods for baffling him, rose, declaring that the 
oracle was false. At this moment a servant 
rushed into the court with the news of the death 
of Mamillius. The young prince had been pin- 
ing ever since his mother’s imprisonment, and 
had suddenly died. When Hermione heard this, 
the woman overpowered the queen. Her forti- 
tude gave .way, and uttering one cry, she fell 
prostrate in the midst of her guards. Thus, in 
an hour, the madness of Leontes had deprived 
himself of wife and children. Then too late his 
eyes were opened ; he saw his gross injustice ; 
he recognized the truth of the oracle ; he be- 
lieved the curse of Apollo had fallen on him for- 
ever. His remorse was as violent as his unjust 
jealousy, and he tore his robes and his hair in a 
frenzy of passionate sorrow. Paulina only could 
console him, and as she was a woman of tender 
heart as well as of strong mind, she was a genu- 
ine comforter. With her own hands, too, she 
prepared the body of Hermione for the grave ; 
watched with it while it lay in state before the 
funeral, and superintended all the obsequies of 
her dear queen and mistress. 

In all this time Antigonus was sailing rapidly 
away from the kingdom of Leontes with the in- 
nocent babe, on whom the king’s wrath had 
fallen. After a tempestuous voyage, his ship 


166 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

touched land at a coast in Bohemia. The night 
before they reached this shore, Antigonus had 
seen in his sleep a vision, which warned him of 
his approaching death, and instructed him to call 
the child Perdita (meaning lost), and leave her 
on the nearest shore. Accordingly, he placed 
the infant in a box with the rich clothing, the 
gold, and the jewels he had brought with him, 
and writing on a slip, which he pinned to her 
garments, the name by which she was to be 
called, and some of the circumstances of her 
birth, he landed, and placed her on the shore, 
which was a very lonely and desolate one. 

As soon as he had done this, a terrible storm 
arose, which obscured all the day. And as An- 
tigonus went over the beach towards his ship, he 
was seized by a ferocious wild beast, which tore 
him in pieces. After the storm had abated, an 
old peasant passing that way found the child in 
its casket, unharmed by the beasts or the ele- 
ments, and his son, a simple country youth, also 
saw the -wretched Antigonus, who was just utter- 
ing his dying groans. These two took up the 
child, and carrying her to their cottage, agreed to 
call her Perdita, and rear her as a shepherdess. 

Sixteen years passed on after the death of 
Hermione, and Leontes, chastened by grief, had 
become a grave and somewhat melancholy man, 


THE STORY OF PERDITA. 


167 


a little past middle age, a just ruler, and much 
more beloved by liis people than in the days of 
his youthful reign. He had never ceased to 
mourn for his beloved Hermione ; and Paulina, 
who also mourned the loss of her husband, re- 
mained his trusted friend and confidant. 

In the kingdom of Polixenes strange events 
were shaping themselves. Perdita had grown 
up under the roof of the rude peasants who had 
fostered her, a beautiful maiden, fair and pure as 
a lily, with a delicate refinement in all her looks 
and words,- a grace in all her motions, which 
made the peasants look upon her with admira- 
tion, and regard her almost as a queen. She 
ruled them with a gentle sway, and at all their 
rustic festivals her wdsh was law. So it hap- 
pened that the fame of her loveliness and good- 
ness spread through all the country round. 

Prince Florizel, who was the heir and only 
son of Polixenes, was a romantic youth of twenty, 
who spent much of his time in wandering about 
the woods and fields of his father’s kingdom. It 
was not strange that he should hear of the radi- 
ant beauty of this peasant maid, who was called 
Perdita, and whose birth was so enveloped in 
mystery. It, was not strange that the youth 
should seek to see her, to prove for himself if 
report had spoken truly. Having once seen her, 
it was the most natural thing in the world that 


168 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Florizel should lose his heart at once to the beau- 
tiful girl who walked the fields like the - goddess 
Flora, who was as modest as Diana, and as fair 
as Cytherea. To all these goddesses he com- 
pared her in his thoughts. 

It was not long before the prince gained ad- 
mission to her foster-father’s cottage, and became 
at home among the shepherd youths.* He joined 
them in their games, and was present at all the 
feast-days and merry-makings. He kept his 
rank secret from all but Perdita. To her he 
avowed his noble parentage, and told her of the 
love he bore her. Perdita could not withhold 
her heart from this royal wooer, who was so su- 
perior to all the rustic swains, who only dared 
worship her at a distance ; but the lovers dreaded 
the displeasure of Polixenes, and neither could 
divine what would be the end of their love. So 
they gave themselves up to the happiness of the 
present, and made no plan for the future. Flor- 
izel daily sought the cottage and the society of 
Perdita. His studies were neglected, he was 
rarely seen at court, and all the royal attendants 
wondered at his distraught manner, and his fre- 
quent absences. 

Of course Polixenes could not help noticing 
all these things, and at length, by the help of 
some spies whom he set to watch Florizel’ s hab- 
its, he got very near the truth. And he deter- 


THE STORY OF PERDITA. 


169 


mined to see for himself what peasant girl it was 
of whom they declared Florizel to be enamored. 
So one day he set out with Camillo (who was 
still loved and honored by him before any one in 
his whole kingdom) for the place where Perdita 
dwelt. 

It happened that there w T as a rustic feast on 
the day Polixenes had chosen for his visit. He 
attended the feast with Camillo, both of them 
disguised as merchants. Th£y could scarcely 
have seen Perdita to better advantage. She 
shone like a queen among the coarse-featured 
rustics in the midst of whom she lived. At her 
side, following her constantly with his eyes — 
whispering in her attentive ear — calling blushes 
to her cheek with his tender flatteries — Polixe- 
nes beheld his recreant son, — the heir to his 
proud kingdom. 

The beauty of the maid almost disarmed the 
king himself at first. He joined their revels 
for a while. The pretty hands of Perdita dealt 
to Camillo and himself a part of the flowers, of 
which she gave appropriate nosegays to each 
guest. Her bright lips and shifting blushes bade 
the strangers welcome to their simple pastimes. 
But Polixenes could not long endure with pa- 
tience the spectacle of his son at the feet of a 
peasant girl,' and throwing off his disguise before 
them all, he bitterly reproached Florizel, and 


170 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

threatened to have both Perdita and her father 
punished for the share they had had in leading 
his son from his duty. After this the king 
marched off in great rage, leaving the poor 
young lovers quite overwhelmed with astonish 
ment and fear. Camillo lingered behind, and to 
him Florizel told his immediate resolve, which 
was to take Perdita and fly with her from the 
shores of Bohemia, to some far-off land, where 
love was not treason. 

Camillo heard him attentively, and seeing he 
was resolved on flight, he debated within his 
mind how he might best serve the king, the 
prince, and his own wishes, all at once. He hit 
on this plan. He would advise Florizel to go to 
Sicily to visit the court of Leontes, who was now 
so repentant for his conduct to Polixenes, that 
he would gladly welcome his son. Then Camillo 
thought, after the departure of Florizel, he would 
tell Polixenes of his son’s whereabouts, and the 
king, whose anger would have cooled by this 
time, could go after Florizel, bring him back, 
and they would be reconciled : while he, Ca- 
millo, could accompany the monarch in his jour- 
ney to Sicily, and thus behold again his native 
country, for which he had always secretly pined. 
It must be confessed that Camillo did not think 
much about Perdita in the affair, and did not 
much care whether Polixenes was reconciled to 


THE STORY OF PERDITA. 171 

her or not. But he furnished the young couple 
with money, and helped them to get on board a 
vessel bound for Sicily. They set sail, taking with 
them the foster-father and brother of Perdita, and 
with favoring winds were soon in the dominions 
of Leontes. 

As soon as they landed, they went straight to 
the court of that sovereign, who received them 
with much favor. Florizel represented Perdita 
to be the daughter of a Libvan king, his new- 
made princess, and invented some plausible ex- 
cuse for the scarcity of their attendants. While 
Leontes was making welcome the prince and his 
beautiful bride, news was brought to the palace 
that Polixenes had landed, with the old courtier, 
Camillo, in search of his lost son. The first 
persons the king of Bohemia encountered on the 
shores of Sicily were the old shepherd and his 
son ; these he instantly seized, and took with him 
to the court. 

His appearance turned everything into con- 
fusion. Florizel was pale but resolute ; the 
maiden wept ; Leontes was divided between 
pity for the prince and his beautiful bride, and 
sympathy with the parental woes of his old 
friend Polixenes, when suddenly the frightened 
old shepherd found a tongue, and piteously im- 
plored them not to punish him for the misdeeds 
of a girl who was not of his blood, and declaring 


172 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

he was only the adopted father of Perdita, he 
produced the proofs of her birth. He pulled 
out, from their concealment in his garments, the 
mantle ^n which the infant had been wrapped, 
the jewels she wore, and the slip of paper on 
which Antigonus had left directions for her 
name, and instructions that she was of noble 
birth, and should be tenderly reared. In an 
instant all was changed: Leontes clasped Per- 
dita in his arms, crying out that she was his lost 
daughter; Paulina listened to the account of 
her husband’s death with tears of grief, which 
were softened by her joy in seeing the oracle 
fulfilled ; Camillo was dumb with amazement, 
and Florizel scarcely knew whether he waked 
or dreamed. There were laughter and tears, 
and explanations and rejoicings, till the whole 
court of Sicily seemed to have gone quite 
mad. 

Of course there was now no bar to the mar- 
riage of Florizel and Perdita, and their hands 
were plighted and the wedding-day fixed. Now 
the court gave themselves up to merry-making 
and rejoicings, which were only marred to Le- 
ontes by the memory of his lost Hermione. 
When Paulina saw that his face often wore a 
shadow, and that many a sigh escaped him 
which only her quick ear heard, she could no 
longer keep secret a surprise she had been re- 


THE STORY OF PERD1TA. 173 

serving for him. This was a life-sized statue of 
Hermione, so wonderfully done by a very famous 
artist, that it looked like the living, breathing 
image of the dead queen. Indeed, Paulina de- 
clared the painter had done his work so well, 
that he had not reproduced the Hermione, of 
sixteen years ago, but the queen as she would 
have looked on the day her daughter was 
found. 

After hearing of this wonderful piece of art, 
all were impatient to see it. Paulina invited all 
the royal party to one of her houses, a little re- 
moved from the royal palace, where she had 
been in the habit of spending much of her time. 
Here, in one of the largest apartments, they all 
beheld a raised platform, in front of which a 
curtain fell in concealing folds. Presently, to 
the sound of music, the curtain was withdrawn, 
and on a low pedestal, clad in sweeping draper- 
ies of white, stood the statue of the queen. It 
was indeed as Paulina had said. The face and 
figure was not that of the girlish queen who had 
sunk under the unjust anger of Leontes. It 
was that of a noble, dignified woman, adding to 
the loveliness of youth the serene and chastened 
beauty of ripened womanhood. All present 
cried out with amazement, and Leontes would 
have rushed forward to clasp the image in his 
arms, if Paulina had not restrained him. She 


174 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

told him he would mar the statue ; that the color 
was not yet dry ; the material, that which would 
not endure rude touch. But Leontes, almost 
beside himself, besought her to make the statue 
live. It seemed, in its life-like aspect, to move 
and breathe : might it not also speak to him ? 
The miracle was wrought when the statue 
was formed ; it would be adding nothing to 
the wonder of it, to give it voice and utter- 
ance. 

With a sudden gesture of command, Paulina 
made them all draw back a little. Since Leon- 
tes wished it, the clay should live. She bade the 
music sound, and while a choir of concealed mu- 
sicians sang in soft accord, she invoked Her- 
mione to come down from *her pedestal. Then 
the white bosom of the statue heaved ; the 
clasped hands stretched eagerly forward ; in 
another moment the image became a woman, 
and Hermione was weeping on the bosom of 
her husband and in the arms of her daugh- 

o 

ter. 

When Paulina’s voice could be heard, she 
was ready to explain the mystery. It was no 
miracle that she had wrought. She had discov- 
ered, on the night before the burial of the 
queen, that she was only in a trance, — not dead, 
— and by much nursing had brought back her 
life. Hermione had refused, however, to let 


THE STORY OF PERDITA. 


175 


her recovery be made known, till her child 
that was lost could be found. The faithful 
Paulina had been her only attendant, and for 
sixteen years she had awaited this happy mo- 
ment which she believed the oracle predicted. 

All this being told, between happy tears, the 
nuptials of Florizel and Perdita were celebrated, 
and all the trials of Leontes ended in wondrous 
happiness. 






THE STORY OF KING LEAR AND HIS THREE 
DAUGHTERS. 

(FROM SHAKESPEARE.) 

A LONG time ago, when the island of Great 
Britain was not so large and prosperous a 
country as now, but was a wild and thinly set- 
tled island, divided .into several kingdoms, there 
reigned over one of these dominions an old mon- 
arch called Lear. He was one of the mightiest 
of the British kings, and though he had a kind 
and generous heart, he was so passionate that 
when one of his fits of rage possessed him, his 
bravest and wisest counselors could not dissuade 
him from any wild or frantic purpose which 
seized him. 

Lear had three children, all of them daughters, 
and all very beautiful. The eldest was named 
Goneril ; the second, Regan ; and the youngest, 
Cordelia. Goneril and Regan were proud and 
haughty beauties. They trod the halls of their 
father’s palace as if they were already queens. 
When any story of suffering or complaint of 
wrong arose from the people, they always took 


KING LEAR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS. 17T 

the part of the oppressor. Their radiant black 
eyes glistened with hatred or sparkled with 
anger, but they never softened with pity or 
tenderness. 

But Cordelia, blue-eyed, golden-haired little 
Cordelia, had a heart full of tenderness and 
goodness. Her sisters disliked her because she 
was so meek and gentle, just as ugly spirits 
always dislike that which is pure and beautiful ; 
so she kept out of their way as much as possible, 
and sat in her chamber, with her maidens, little 
heeded and little known by the court or people. 

She had heard so many loud, false speeches 
from the tongues of her sisters, that she had 
learned to distrust noisy vows and protestations, ** 
and had grown very reserved and modest in her 
speech. Sometimes, when she tried to tell the 
emotions which lay warm and deep in her heart, 
an impulse, half of shame, would check her, — a 
feeling as if these things were too sacred to be 
talked about. 

Thus these three sisters lived in the court un- 
til Lear became an old, old man. Then he began 
to imagine he was weary of all the trouble of his * 
state affairs, and resolved he would divide his 
kingdom into three parts, and give to each of 
his daughters an equal portion of his realm to 
govern. For this purpose he assembled one day 
all the principal officers of his kingdom, all his 
12 


178 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

priests and nobles, and sitting in the midst of 
them in grand state upon his throne, overhung 
by canopies of brilliant cloth, he sent for his three 
daughters to appear before him. 

They came at his bidding. First the proud 
Goneril, with her husband, the Duke of Albany ; 
then the haughty Regan, with her cruel-looking 
lord, the Duke of Cornwall ; last of all came 
Cordelia, blushing and half afraid at appearing „ 
before so many people. Cordelia had two lovers 
visiting her father’s court, both Frenchmen ; for 
although she had lived so quietly in the palace, 
the neighboring princes did not forget that Lear 
had a daughter yet unmarried, and all foreign 
nations were eager to form an alliance with so 
mighty a prince. 

When they were all arranged in state, Lear 
told the court of his purpose to divide the king- 
dom among his three daughters, and declared 
that he should spend the rest of his days in turn 
with, each of them. His wisest lords shook their 
heads doubtfully when he said this; but all 
knew his temper so well that not one dared ob- 
ject. 

Lear called on Goneril first to declare how 
much she loved him, that he might requite her 
love by a portion of his kingdom. To this Gon- 
eril answered that she loved him beyond her 
eye-sight, her freedom, her life itself. She as- 


KING LEAR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS. 179 

surecl him no child had ever loved a father as 
she loved him, and that words were too weak to 
tell the greatness of her love. 

When she stopped speaking, Lear showed her 
the limits of the kingdom he had deeded to her 
and the Duke of Albany, a most generous gift ; 
and then he turned to Regan, who stood by, 
eager to speak, and asked her which she thought 
loved him best. Regan told him she was of the 
same blood as Goneril, her sister, and she loved 
him not a whit less ; that even her sister’s decla- 
rations of affection did not come up to the meas- 
ure of her feelings ; and that her only earthly 
happiness was in her father’s love. 

Lear then gave her an ample portion for her 
dowry, and called forth his youngest daughter, 
whom in his heart he loved best of the three. 
Now Cordelia had listened with amazement at 
the ease with which her sisters had declared the 
most sacred feelings of the heart so loudly, and 
at the extraordinary affection they professed. 
“What love have they left to give their hus- 
bands,” she thought within herself, “ if they love 
their father all ? ” While she was thus thinking, 
Lear asked this youngest and best-loved child 
what she had to say. She looked at him with her 
clear, truthful eyes, and answered, “ Nothing.” 

Lear looked at her in wonder, and repeated 
“Nothing ? ” 


180 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Cordelia then told him simply that she loved 
him as she ought to love a father who had bred 
and reared her ; that she should always honor 
and obey him above all others ; but if she had a 
husband, she should think it her duty to give him 
half her love and care, and not, like her sisters, 
give her father all. 

On this Lear went into one of his terrible fits 
of rage. He was so sorely disappointed at Cor- 
delia’s answer that he could not wait to let his 
reason see how wise it was. He stamped and 
raved, and without delay divided the large por- 
tion he had reserved for Cordelia between her 
sisters. He bade her instantly leave the court, 
and never see his face again. One of his oldest 
nobles, the Earl of Kent, interceded for her so 
boldly, that the king’s rage turned on him also, 
and he banished him, on pain of death, from his 
kingdom. Then he called forth Cordelia’s lovers, 
the Duke of Burgundy and the King of France, 
and told them if either of them wished Cordelia, 
stripped of rank and wealth, they might take her 
where she stood ; from him she should have noth- 
ing. Burgundy said that since she had no for- 
tune, he could scarcely afford to marry her ; but 
the French King said nobly, that he could see 
virtues in the maiden worth more than lands or 
gold, and if she would, she should be his bride 
and the Queen of France. 


KING LEAR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS. 181 

Cordelia looked into his handsome, earnest 
face and gave him her hand without a word. 
Even if she had not thought of him before, his 
noble offer was enough to make her love him as 
much as a prince of so rare qualities deserved to 
be loved. And hand in hand, without a single 
attendant, she went out with her royal lover, in 
the footsteps of poor Kent, whom Leon had so 
madly banished. 

Immediately Goneril, with her husband, the 
Duke of Albany, took command of their new 
kingdom, and the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall 
went to occupy their palace. Lear only reserved 
for himself a hundred knights and warriors ^for 
his train of followers, and trusted the keeping of 
them all to the generosity of the two daughters 
to whom he had given everything. 

He resolved to live one month with Goneril, 
and spend the next with Regan, and so changing 
from month to month, spend equal time with 
each daughter. For a few days Goneril dis- 
guised her wicked temper, — but only for a few 
days. She waited for the first slight pretext to 
complain of her father and take away some of his 
pleasures. One day when his men, who were 
nearly all soldiers and rough fellows, used to be- 
ing at battle in the field, had been a little noisy 
in one of the court-yards of her palace, she sent 
for her father, and told him he kept too many 


182 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


followers ; that she could no longer permit it. 
She asked what necessity there was for him, who 
would always be well taken care of by his 
daughters, if he behaved properly, to have so 
many as a hundred followers. Would not fifty, 
or even twenty-five, do quite as well ? 

Imagine how Lear felt at being talked to thus. 
An old king who had given up to this daughter 
half his kingdom, the command of his great ar- 
mies, and his right to rule ; he to whom thou- 
sands had been a small retinue, to be now denied 
a mere handful of attendants. The passionate 
old man was so choked with rage and grief, he 
could scarcely speak. When he tried to reply, 
his tears almost stopped him. Goneril stood gaz- 
ing unmoved on her aged father’s wounded feel- 
ing, and at length he told her that he would 
leave her inhospitable roof, for he had yet another 
daughter who would not treat him thus. Surely 
Nature could not produce another monster such 
as she. When she answered this with more 
bitter insults, he cursed her with a curse so ter- 
rible, that one can hardly imagine how she 
could have heard it and not fallen on her knees 
and called on God for mercy. 

Lear then left her castle gates with all his 
train, and set out for Regan’s palace. Just be- 
fore this happened, the Earl of Kent, whom 
Lear had banished, fearing his old master would 


KING LEAR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS. 183 

need some trusty friend, liad returned in disguise 
to Britain. He offered himself to Lear as his 
servant, and Lear, who did not recognize him, 
had accepted him. He now called Kent, and 
sent him as his messenger to Regan, to inform 
her of her sister’s wicked conduct, and bid her 
prepare to receive him. 

Kent hurried off without delay, but the end 
proved that Goneril outwitted him. This wicked 
woman, the moment Lear left her palace, sent a 
messenger post-haste to Regan, counseling her to 
oppose all Lear’s wishes, and deprive him of all 
state, lest with his hundred men he should prove 
dangerous to their power. The Duke of Albany, 
who was a kind-hearted man, but incapable of 
controlling so bad a wife, tried in vain to soften 
her heart. All his sympathy for Lear seemed 
but to strengthen her purpose. 

Regan received her sister’s messenger, and 
immediately followed her advice. When Kent 
arrived at her court, he was punished for some 
slight offense by being placed with his feet in 
the stocks. Very soon Lear arrived, to find 
his messenger thus insulted, his message un- 
heeded, and himself received with pointed cold- 
ness by the daughter on whom all his hopes 
were laid. 

The poor king placed much constraint upon 
himself at first, and tried to reason mildly with 


184 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Regan against taking her sister’s part ; but when 
he found his words did not move her, and that 
she was even more harsh and unyielding than 
Goneril, he burst out into ravings of despair. 
To add to his misery, Goneril came then to 
Regan’s court, attended by a train more numer- 
ous and grand than had attended Lear in the 
days of his magnificence ; and he saw Regan, 
w r ho had refused him welcome, embrace and kiss 
this wicked daughter. At this sight he was 
convinced that they were leagued against him, 
and that he should find no pity there. He de- 
clared that he would quit them both ; that the 
elements would be more kind than such vipers 
as these ; and so rushed madly from the cham- 
ber, through the court, outside the court-yard 
gates. 

When Lear thus fled from the luxurious pal- 
ace-hall in which he had held this last meeting 
with his daughters, it was beginning to grow 
dark, and a terrible storm was coming on. Al- 
ready they heard the loud roll of thunder and 
saw the sharp flashes of lightning. But though 
some nobles in Regan’s court, more tender- 
hearted than these stony women, pleaded for the 
king, and besought them not to let him go out 
into a night when even beasts ought to be shel- 
tered, they alone were pitiless. They helped to 
drive their poor old father forth, and locked after 


KING LEAR AND HIS THREE . DAUGHTERS. 185 

him their heavy castle gates. There, outside in 
the rude storm, with no attendants but his faith- 
ful Kent and a poor jester, who had been his 
sport when he was king, stood the once mighty 
Lear. The hail fell in lar^e stones upon his 
head, stripped of its royal crown, and the wild 
wind blew his long white hairs about his face. 
The whole country was a barren heath, without 
a house to give them shelter ; and thus buffeted 
by storms and wounded in his heart’s core, is it 
to be wondered at that he lost his reason and 
became insane ? 

Before the night- was over, a kind lord, named 
Gloster, came to seek them, and took them to a 
farm-house where Lear could be warmed and 
fed. But it could not restore his reason, and he 
knew no more the faces of his friends, but raved 
madly of his daughters. 

In the mean time the Earl of Kent, who had 
been so faithful to his old master, had been busy 
' at work for him. He had been sending messen- 
gers to France, where Cordelia and her husband 
dwelt, telling of the manner in which the cruel 
sisters treated Lear; and the French king had 
already begun to march an army toward Britain. 
On the very night that Lear was driven out, he 
landed his troops at Dover, the nearest English 
seaport from France. 

As soon as the storm cleared, Gloster told 


186 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Kent that lie thought the sisters had formed a 
plot to have their old father murdered, and Kent 
resolved to hurry on with his helpless charge to 
the French camp. When he reached there, he * 
found the King of France had gone back into 
his own country on some sudden business, but 
he saw Cordelia, who was left in charge of the 
the army, and told her the sad story of her 
father’s wrongs. Lear could not be persuaded 
to enter the camp ; but escaped from Kent, and 
■vVfent roving up and down the open country, 
crowning himself with weeds, and imagining 
himself again a king. Cordelia sent her trust- 
iest guards to find him ; and when at length he 
was weary and footsore, they found him, and 
brought him to the queen’s tent, where he fell 
into a deep slumber. 

While he slept Cordelia watched his breathing 
as if he were a sick child, and wept over his 
poor Avhite head, so beaten by the storm. By 
and by he waked. With the deep slumber his 
madness had gone away, and he recognized his 
youngest and dearest daughter weeping by his 
couch. How happy he was to find he had one 
child who loved him, and how grieved that he 
had not understood her sooner ! 

While they were in the first joy of meeting, 
news came that the good old Gloster had been 
most cruelly treated for being kind to Lear, and 


KING LEAR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS. 18T 

that while the wicked sisters and Regan’s hus- 
band were practicing horrible tortures on the old 
man, one of Gloster’s servants had interfered ; 
and, trying to protect his lord, was killed, but 
not until he had partly avenged Gloster’s 
wrongs, by giving the Duke of Cornwall his 
death-stab. Regan, thus left a widow*! had put 
her soldiers under command of a crafty Lord 
Edmund, with whom she was in love and meant 
to marry, and had joined her army to that of 
her sister Goneril, to march against the French 
at Dover. 

Cordelia did the best so young a bride could 
do without her husband, and marched her army 
out to meet them. But she was too much taken 
at disadvantage. The French troops were put 
to flight, and Lear and Cordelia were taken pris- 
oners, and sent to a dungeon. They were con- 
signed to prison by the orders of the miserable 
Edmund, who was commander of Regan’s forces ; 
and when the Duke of Albany, who was the 
rightful general of the whole army, demanded 
the royal prisoners, Edmund refused to give 
them up. 

And here it came out that both these bad sis- 
ters loved this base Edmund, who was a low- 
born fellow, and that Regan had intended to 
marry him since her husband had died, while 
Goneril was plotting to murder the kind-hearted 


188 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Duke of Albany, her husband, that she might 
be free to unite herself to Edmund. Albany 
openly accused Goneril of her crime, and showed 
her the letter in which she had plotted against 
his life. Then Goneril went out from Albany’s 
presence maddened to frenzy, and first giving 
Regan a draught of deadly poison, she stabbed 
herself, and news was brought to the camp 
of the miserable end of both these unnatural 
women. 

As soon as he could, while all these horrors 
were happening, the Duke sent to Lear’s prison 
to have him liberated ; but alas ! he sent too 
late. Edmund had before given orders that 
the prisoners should be secretly murdered, and 
when they arrived at the prison, they met Lear 
bearing out Cordelia in his arms, quite dead. 

It was pitiful to see how the old wronged king 
wept this last dear daughter, whose love had 
proved the only real love of all. He laid his 
ear upon her heart, to see if there were not the 
faintest beat, and watched eagerly for one little 
sign of breath ; and when he found that she lay 
cold and still, his poor heart, that had borne so 
many sorrows, gave way at last, and with one 
bursting sigh, quite broke, and he fell dead be- 
side her. 

Such was the tragic end of King Lear and his 
three daughters. 



THE WITTY PORTIA; OR, THE THREE CAS^ 
KETS. 

(FROM SHAKESPEARE.) 

S EVERAL hundred years ago, when the 
kingdom of Italy contained many proud and 
prosperous commercial states, only a few days’ 
sail from the city of Venice there lived a very 
famous and wealthy heiress. She dwelt in a 
magnificent palace, built on a strongly fortified 
island, and kept there the state and grandeur 
of a queen. This heiress, who was named Por- 
tia, was very beautiful, and one of the most in- 
tellectual women of the age. She was not only 
skilled in the working of tapestry and all sorts 
of exquisite embroidery, with which women or- 
dinarily filled up their time, hut she was a rare 
musician, an accomplished scholar, learned in the 
arts and sciences, and well read in Venetian laws 
and history. 

Portia was of that rare type of Venetian 
beauty which Titian has made famous in his 
pictures. Fair as the fairest of Northern wo- 
men, her fleecy golden hair fell in wavy masses 


190 STORIES FROM OLD' ENGLISH POETRY. 

about her lovely neck and shoulders. Tall and 
elegant in figure, she bore herself like a princess 
who owed her birth to a race of kings. Her ori- 
gin was indeed almost royal, for her father was 
the last of a long line of Venetian merchants, 
who ruled the commerce of the world, and 
whose countless ships furled their sails in every 
civilized port upon the globe. 

Not long before this story opens, her father 
had died, leaving his only daughter heiress to 
such vast possessions on sea and land, of palaces 
and ships, treasures of gold, silver, and precious 
stones, — storehouses of rich stuffs, silks and vel- 
vets, perfumes and spicery, that her wealth 
challenged belief, and was almost beyond ac- 
count. Yet Portia, already in the full bloom of 
beauty, rich, and princely in her virtues, was 
still unwedded and kept her state in maiden 
loneliness. For such a strange fact there is a 
strange explanation, which forms the subject of 
this tale. 

Portia’s father was a virtuous man, of excel- 
lent wisdom and judgment. He was very fond of 
his only child, and he chiefly feared lest, on his 
death, she might be wooed for her great wealth, 
and marry some one who would not love her 
for her goodness and beauty, but for her riches 
alone. Therefore he devised, shortly before his 
death, a scheme to get her a worthy husband. 


THE WITTY PORTIA. 


191 


He caused to be made three caskets, after the 
Venetian style of treasure-caskets ; the first of 
these was of gold, the second of silver, — both 
richly chased and ornamented; and the third 
was a plain, unadorned box of that meagre and 
uncostly metal, — lead. 

The golden casket bore this inscription, “ Who 
chooseth me shall gain what many men desire ” 
The second had for its motto, “ Who chooseth me 
shall get as much as he deserves ; ” while the 
leaden box said threateningly, “ Who chooseth me 
must give and hazard all he hath.” 

Then in his will the old merchant left his 
wealth to Portia with these conditions : First, 
that whoever sought her hand in marriage should 
choose one of these three caskets ; and if, on 
opening it, he found the answer it contained 
unfavorable to his suit, he should instantly quit 
the palace, first taking a solemn oath never to re- 
veal which casket he had chosen, and never after 
to seek any woman in marriage, but to remain 
single all his life. Secondly, that Portia should 
never, even to a favored lover, give any hint of 
the contents of the caskets, but should abide by 
their decree, and remain unmarried till the right 
casket was chosen. It is easy then to see why 
Portia remained unmarried. Suitors thronged 
her gates from year to year, and the piers of her 
harbor were crowded with the ships of gallant 


192 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


gentlemen who came to see this wonderful heir- 
ess. But many, nay, a greater part, turned 
back before risking the hard conditions of the 
choice. Others when they saw her did not de- 
sire to marry a woman so superior to themselves 
in intellect, for she sent the keen arrows of her 
shrewd wit right and left ; and some of the weak- 
minded cavaliers, wdio came prepared to venture 
much to gain such wealth, retired quickly from 
the presence of a woman who saw their defects 
with eyes so quick. Portia used her wit often in 
self-protection, and with no want of womanly 
delicacy, for in her heart she wished defeat to 
every wooer who had approached her. In the 
depths of her heart, unconfessed even to her 
dearest confidante, her companion and waiting- 
woman Nerissa, she held the memory of one 
gentleman, before whom all others seemed but 
poor creatures, unworthy a woman’s regard. 
This gentleman, whose name she scarcely 
breathed even to her own most secret thoughts, 
was Bassanio, a native of Venice, most courteous 
in his manners, and in acquirements a very pat- 
tern of the time. He had once before her 
father’s death visited their palace at Belmont, in 
company with a young nobleman of Italy, and 
although no word of love had ever passed be- 
tween them, their eyes had delivered fair speech- 
less messages to each other, whose import still 
lingered in her memory. 


THE WITTY PORTIA. 


193 


Nerissa, indeed, who loved Portia dearly, and 
was the . partner of her plans and wishes, sus- 
pected, with the cunning of her sex, that Bassa- 
nio’s image lay nearest her mistress’s heart ; but 
even she dared not hint this, and rarely men- 
tioned his name to Portia when they were most 
alone. 

In the mean time Bassanio lived in the city of 
Venice. Although of good birth, he was impov- 
erished in his fortunes, and had been from early 
youth an orphan. He was from childhood much 
endeared to a wealthy merchant named Antonio, 
many years his senior, who seemed to him to 
unite the double relations of friend and parent. 
To Bassanio, Antonio’s purse was always open, 
and with such lavish generosity had he given to 
him that his means had been somewhat shaken 
by his young friend’s extravagance. 

Bassanio did not realize this, and truly loved 
Antonio with no less love than he was worthy of, 
but he accepted all his friend’s favors with the 
graceful carelessness of a son, who finds the same 
joy in receiving that the indulgent parent finds 
in giving. Latterly, however, Bassanio had be- 
gun to brood a little over his obligations. He 
saw that Antonio wore a clouded brow which 
betokened business troubles, and he heard it 
whispered on the Rialto, which was the business 
exchan se of Venice, that Antonio’s fortunes 
13 


194 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

would fail if they were not propped up by some 
unexpected prosperity. 

In the midst of these rumors, the memory of 
the heiress of Belmont returned to Bassanio’s 
mind. He recollected well the Lady Portia; 
and he recalled her beauty and charms of con- 
versation as far above those of any woman he had 
ever known. Then he thought of her fortune, 
which, united to the rare qualities she possessed, 
seemed to make her a prize beyond any man’s 
deserts. Thinking of these things, he heard of 
the strange manner in which her father had de- 
creed her hand should be won, and the news in- 
spired a strong hope in his breast. 

He thought if he could but go to Belmont and 
make choice of the caskets, he might perchance 
win Portia for a wife. He wished he might go 
thither as a guest, recall himself to her remem- 
brance, and if by any token he could discover 
that she might like him for a husband, he would 
risk the fatal choice. But he resolved if he saw 
no sign of preference, to come away without 
tempting the verdict of the caskets, since even at 
their bidding he would not accept a wife who 
took him on compulsion. 

Here his dreams stopped, and he commenced 
to think on what means he had to visit Belmont. 
He could not go without a handsome ship, rich 
clothes, and a train of attendants ; for though 


THE WITTY PORTIA. 


195 


Portia’s father, very wisely, had not stipulated 
that her suitors should be wealthy, yet Bassanio’s 
pride forbade he should appear before her like a 
beggar. How should he get the money to fur- 
nish him for Belmont ? His credit was exhausted 
in Venice. He was indeed much in debt there. 
To no one could he apply but to his dear Anto- 
nio, that friend who had already periled his for- 
tunes for him. Bassanio went to him straight- 
way. He told him of the latent love he had 
borne Portia ever since he had first looked on 
her ; of her accomplishments, beauty, and her 
great riches. He assured Antonio that if fortune 
should be favorable and give her to him, his first 
use of wealth should be to build up his friend’s 
fortunes, till he was once more the most prosper- 
ous merchant in Venice. 

Antonio heard him through, and without a 
word of hesitation commenced to devise means to 
raise the money, never questioning the success 
of Bassanio’s plans, or hinting at the many suit- 
ors who had already failed at Belmont. His 
ships were all at sea, engaged in different ven- 
tures, and he had no ready money to advance to 
his friend. At length he bethought himself of a 
Jew in Venice, very rich, who loaned money out 
for a considerable usury, — a practice thought 
dishonorable by the Christian merchants, who 
were accustomed to lend their money freely and 
without interest. 


196 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

The Jews were then, as ever since in Europe, 
a most despised and oppressed race. In all 
countries they were strangers and foreigners. 
All Christian nations united in persecuting them, 
and most cruel laws were passed against them 
everywhere. Their only protection against such 
social injustice was in making themselves as 
powerful as possible to resist it ; and their means 
had been in all countries to heap up vast wealth, 
so that in their homes and synagogues they could 
feel themselves partly secure from their oppres- 
sors, or sometimes even purchase by the power 
of their money those rights which society other- 
wise denied them. 

One of these Jews Antonio thought of, a man 
of clear, subtle intellect, born to have been a 
statesman if the state had not refused to father 
him, and now, although an outlaw, a man of 
influence and power among the scattered rem- 
nant of his tribe. Feeling his own power and 
nis superiority over the Christians who spit upon 
and spurned him, his whole soul was filled with 
bitterest hatred of his persecutors. Those qual- 
ities, which in him would have been great and 
noble if it had not been for his unfortunate birth, 
were turned to craft to outwit the Christians, and 
to form schemes of revenge upon his enemies. 
Too cunning to let them read his nature or his 
designs, he carried smiles on his lips to conceal 


THE WITTY PORTIA. 


19T 


the mockery he felt, and hid under a bland, al- 
most servile, demeanor, the gnawing hate which 
he bore within his breast. Of all the merchants 
of Venice he hated Antonio most, for by his 
learning and courtesy Antonio held a rank among 
his brethren similar to that which Shylock held 
among his tribe ; and the Jew felt that if he 
could gain advantage over this one man, he dealt 
the Christians a blow, and revenged himself upon 
his equal. 

To Shylock, then, Antonio repaired for money 
with his friend Bassanio. The Jew received 
them with much suavity, and although he dis- 
claimed to have in his possession so large a sum 
as three thousand ducats, which was the amount 
they asked, he agreed to obtain it from some of 
his friends, and professing great kindness for 
Antonio, who he declared had wronged him in 
thinking he was unfriendly to him, he proffered 
Antonio the money without interest, according 
to the Christian manner. 

When Antonio refused this offer, and wished 
to comply with the Jewish custom, Shylock said 
since this was to cement a new friendship be- 
tween them who had been enemies, Antonio 
should, in jest merely, sign a bond by which no 
interest should be paid for the three thousand 
ducats ; but if they were not paid at the end of 
three months, the Jew should receive instead a 


198 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

pound of flesh, cut from whatever part of his 
body Shylock chose. 

Bassanio, with the jealous eye of friendship, 
half detected the Jew’s treachery under the 
mask of generosity he wore, and endeavored to 
dissuade his friend ; but Antonio caught at the 
offer, assured Bassanio he was sure to be able to 
raise the money long before three months, by 
the prosperous return of some of his ships, and 
they went all together to a notary, where this 
merry bond of Shylock’s was drawn up and 
signed. 

Immediately Bassanio made his preparations 
to depart. He took with him for company one 
of his friends named Gratiano, a gentleman of 
Venice, a fellow full of wit and sprightliness, 
handsome and brave, but a most prodigious 
talker. With this friend, a fine ship, rich attire, 
and a train of attendants, Bassanio set sail for 
Belmont. 

Just as they reached Portia’s dominions, two 
suitors of importance had made their choice and 
been dismissed. The first of these was a prince 
of Morocco, a Moor, whose dark complexion 
formed a strong contrast to the dazzlino- fairness 
of Portia. He had been admitted to the room 
where the caskets lay, and after reading the in- 
scriptions, had chosen the golden casket, declar- 
ing that no less costly metal was worthy to 


THE WITTY PORTIA. 


199 


hold enshrined the image of his love. He 
opened and found a skull whose empty eye- 
socket contained a paper with these verses : — 

“ All that glistens is not gold; 

Often have you heard that told: 

Many a man his life hath sold 
But my outside to behold: 

Gilded tombs do worms infold. 

Had you been as wise as bold, 

Young in limbs, in judgment old, 

Your answer had not been inscrolled: 

Fare you well; your suit is cold.” 

The second suitor was a prince of Arragon, a 
pompous Spaniard. He read aloud the inscrip- 
tion, “ Who chooseth me shall get as much as he 
deserves ; ” and vainly imagining that his deserts 
were no less than the hand of Portia, he had 
chosen the silver casket. Within he found 
the picture of a blinking idiot, and these 
lines : — 


“ The fire seven times tried this: 

Seven times tried that judgment is, 

That did never choose amiss. 

Some there be that shadows kiss; 

Such have but a shadow’s bliss: 

There be fools alive, I wis, 

Silvered o’er, and so was this. 

Take what wife you will to bed, 

I will ever be your head; 

So begone, sir: you are sped.” 

These disappointed suitors, with their retinues, 
Bassanio met issuing from the palace gates as 
he applied for entrance. He gained fair Por- 


200 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

tia’s presence, and was received by her right 
royally. Feast succeeded feast in her palace to 
do honor to his visit, and she spared no pains to 
please her guest, putting off day by day his de- 
sire to make the fatal choice, lest by it she should 
lose sight of him whom she felt was becoming 
constantly dearer. At length Bassanio could no 
longer conceal his impatience to know his fate, 
and obtained her consent to make his choice. 
Portia, Nerissa, Gratiano, and a host of attend- 
ants accompanied him to the mysterious cham- 
ber where the caskets lay in state, and to the 
sound of sweet, half-melancholy music, the cur- 
tains that concealed them were withdrawn. 

The heart of Portia beat fast as Bassanio ap- 
proached the caskets. He looked from one to 
the other, read carefully the inscriptions, and 
guided perhaps by the inspiration of the real 
love he felt for Portia, laid his hand upon the 
box of lead. It flew open at the touch, and with- 
in fair Portia’s picture, elegantly set in gold and 
diamonds, lay enshrined, while beside it was a 
paper on which was written this stanza : — 

“ You that choose not b}- the view, 

Chance as fair and choose as true ! 

Since this fortune falls to you, 

Be content and seek no new. 

If you be well p'eased with this, 

And hold your fortune for your bliss, 

Turn you where your lady is, 

And claim her with a loving kiss.” 



THE THREE CASKETS. Page 200. 







































































THE WITTY PORTIA. 


201 


We can imagine the happiness of such a 
choice to the lovers who were but a moment 
before on the rack of doubt as to their fate. 

Meanwhile in Venice, Antonio’s affairs looked 
dark and uncertain.. His ships had as yet failed 
to come to port, and there were rumors of their 
shipwreck and loss. The Jew began openly to 
boast of his power over the merchant, and was 
more than ever inflamed against the Christians 
by a new sorrow which one of ttheir hated race 
had brought on him. 

Shylock had an only daughter, young Jes- 
sica, on whom all the affection of his suppressed 
nature was lavished. She was handsome and 
coquettish, and in her the Jew saw the image 
of his dead wife, her mother, whom he had in 
his youth ardently loved. Jessica was frivolous 
and unfeeling. Her dark eyes had long noted 
a handsome young cavalier, who played love- 
ditties under her lattice on summer eves, when 
her father was abroad, and to this gallant, Lo- 
renzo by name, she had given the whole of her 
shallow little heart. He wooed her to elope 
with him, and one night when Shylock had 
gone to sup with some of the Christians, Jessica 
left her home, in the disguise of a page, to fol- 
low her lover. 

Shylock had trusted her with the keys which 
locked his treasures, and the careless dark-eyed 


202 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

beauty, not content with the stab her marriage 
with an enemy would give her poor old father’s 
heart, broke her filial trust, rifled him of his 
rarest treasures, some of her dead mother’s 
jewels, all the gold she cojuld find, and loaded 
her lover with the booty. They set out hastily 
from Venice to escape her father’s wrath, and 
were next heard from at Genoa. This event 
had terribly embittered the Jew, and made him 
more than ever Jong to wreak his vengeance on 
the Christian race. Therefore, the instant the 
three months expired, he caused Antonio to be 
arrested, and demanded from the court a pound 
of his flesh as the bond had specified. 

The Venetians, who were more proud of the 
unchangeableness than of the justice of their 
laws, were muel^ moved by this claim of Shy- 
lock. By an ancient decree, no Venetian law 
could ever be repealed, and as Shylock’s demand 
seemed legal to the court, they knew not how to 
deny it. The Duke of Venice, however, put 
off the judgment until word could be sent to 
Belmont of Antonio’s danger. 

Salario, a friend and boon-companion, set out 
hastily from Venice with letters to Bassanio from 
the Duke and Antonio. On his way he met the 
runaway pair, Lorenzo and Jessica, who, at his 
request, accompanied him to Belmont. The 
party arrived there in the midst of the rejoicing 


THE WITTY PORTIA. 


203 


which followed Bassanio’s choice, and much 
chilled the ardor of his happiness by the sad tid- 
ings they brought him of his friend. 

As soon as Portia heard the story of Antonio’s 
devotion to her lover, and of the danger he was 
in from the Jew’s vengeance, she begged Bas- 
sanio only to tarry long enough for a hasty mar- 
riage ceremony, and then to set off for Venice 
without delay. They went to church, and there 
Portia and Bassanio were married, and after 
them, Gratiano and Nerissa (who had agreed to 
make a match if Bassanio’s choice proved favor- 
able) were also made man and wife. Immedi- 
ately Portia loaded her husband with ducats to 
pay Antonio’s debt several times over, and the 
newly married gentlemen set sail for Venice. 

As soon as they were fairly off, Portia called 
Lorenzo and Jessica, who had remained as her 
guests during Bassanio’s absence, and giving 
them the keys of her household, and the control 
of her palace, she asked them to act as master 
and mistress there, while she and Nerissa went 
to a convent near by to offer prayers for the safe 
and speedy return of their husbands. The pretty 
Jessica accepted the trust, and Portia and her 
maid left the palace of Belmont. 

But instead of setting out for the convent, she 
went directly to the chief port of her island, and 
there awaited the return of a messenger whom 


204 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

she had sent post-haste to Padua. She had in 
Padua a kinsman, Bellario by name, who was a 
very learned Doctor of Laws, and from him 
Portia had in her youth received instructions in 
the Venetian law. Assisted by the knowledge 
thus gained from Bellario, Portia’s ready wit 
had, on the instant she heard Antonio’s case, 
given her a hope of his safety. She had there- 
fore sent to Bellario her opinion, asking him to 
confirm it, if it were correct, and asking him also 
to send her two disguises for herself and Nerissa. 
Her messenger travelled quickly to Padua, and 
returned to the port where she awaited him, with 
most hopeful letters from Bellario, and the gar- 
ments for which she had sent, and the enterpris- 
ing ladies with all imaginable speed set out in 
Bassanio’s wake for Venice. As soon as her 
ship arrived there, Portia dressed herself as a 
Doctor of Laws, and with Nerissa attired as her 
clerk, went straight to the Duke’s council hall, 
where the court was at that moment convened. 

Bellario had furnished her with letters to the 
Duke, in which he spoke of her as a talented 
young doctor, wise beyond his years, and these 
letters she sent in to the Duke by the faithful 
Nerissa, who looked to perfection the part of a 
youthful student of the law. The Duke received 
the letters with great joy, and the disguised lady 
was ushered immediately into his presence. A 


THE WITTY PORTIA. 


205 


principal seat was given her near the Duke, who 
sat upon his throne in great state in the midst 
of the assembly. On one hand stood Antonio, 
calm and unmoved at the near approach of death, 
and endeavoring to comfort, by his gentle per- 
suasions, his afflicted friend Bassanio, who was 
much more deeply plunged in grief than the no- 
ble victim of the Jew’s hate. On the other side 
was Shylock, his cloak of civility and blandness 
thrown boldly aside, his eager eyes thirsting for 
the sight of his victim’s blood, and in his hand 
the sharp, glittering knife with which to exact 
the penalty. 

Portia looked at him for one moment as she 
rose to examine the case, and then in a voice 
of tenderest compassion she urged on him the 
Christian law of mercy. But the Jew was deaf 
to her appeal. His religion had taught him that 
to exact eye for eye and tooth for tooth was the 
proper rule of dealing with his fellow-man, and 
he would have no better teaching than that of 
his own synagogues. When Portia found his 
heart thus obdurate, she made no further appeal, 
but asked if he had been offered more than the 
sum which Antonio had owed him. Upon this 
Bassanio again offered the Jew several times the 
amount of the debt, which Shylock scornfully 
refused, declaring that for countless ducats he 
would not exchange his right to the pound of his 
enemy's flesh. 


206 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

When he had answered thus, Portia plainly 
told the court that since the laws of Venice were 
immutable, and Antonio had given the bond 
freely, the forfeit of a pound of flesh was law- 
fully to be exacted, and must be awarded by the 
court. 

At this a shudder ran through the listening 
court, which had sat breathless while Portia 
spoke. Antonio pressed to his heart his weeping 
friend Bassanio, who was utterly overwhelmed 
at the terrible calamity of which he had been the 
cause. The impetuous Gratiano could no longer 
keep silent, but vented curses and reproaches 
upon the triumphant Shylock. The Jew’s fig- 
ure seemed to dilate with the near approach of 
his vengeance, and he advanced eagerly to An- 
tonio with his bared steel uplifted. Just as he 
clutched the merchant’s breast, Portia bade him 
stay his hand a moment. Shylock turned, im- 
patient at this new interruption, but quailed 
before the majesty of the gesture with which she 
waved him from the merchant’s side. 

She bade him cut the flesh, since by law it 
belonged to him, but to mark that in cutting it 
he shed no drop of Christian blood. That the 
words of the bond were simply a pound of flesh , 
and if one drop of blood were wrongly shed, the 
Jew’s lands and goods were confiscated. Shy- 
lock stood quivering with disappointment and 


THE WITTY PORTIA. 


207 


baffled rage, and Portia went on to say that if in 
cutting from Antonio's breast he took more or 
less than one just pound, if the scale should turn 
but a hair’s weight more than the just due of 
flesh, Shylock’s own life was forfeit. No words 
can describe the joy of Antonio’s friends, or 
paint the rage of the baffled Shy lock. He cried 
out that he would take then his three thousand 
ducats, and Bassanio was about to restore them 
when Portia interposed. She declared since 
they had been already refused, the Jew should 
not have the money, — he should have nothing 
but the bond. She then read the court an an- 
cient law of Venice, which decreed that an alien, 
who directly or indirectly sought the life of a 
citizen, should as a punishment lose all his goods 
and estate, half of which should be given to the 
person against whom he had conspired, and the 
rest go to the coffers of the state. This would 
have been enforced on Shylock, had not Antonio 
begged the Duke’s mercy for the Jew, on con- 
dition that Shvlock would sign a paper, giving to 
Lorenzo and Jessica all the wealth of which he 
might die possessed, and also that he would 
promise to receive baptism, and become a Chris- 
tian. Both these things Shylock was forced to 
promise, but it was easy to see as he tottered 
from the council-hall that the broken-spirited old 
man would never outlive his baptism. 


208 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

The court broke up with great rejoicing over 
Antonio, ancl in the midst of it Bassanio advanced 
to thank the young Doctor of Laws for the great 
service he had rendered him in this judgment of 
the case. He pressed upon him money for his 
legal aid, but the doctor graciously refused all 
reward. Bassanio then urged him to . accept 
some remembrance in token of his great grati- 
tude, on which the doctor fixed upon a certain 
ring Bassanio wore upon his hand. Now this 
ring was one which Portia had herself placed on 
Bassanio’s finger, on the day he had chosen the 
leaden casket, adjuring him never to part with it, 
and telling him if he lost or gave it away she 
should accept it as a presage of misfortune to 
their love. Bassanio, in much confusion, denied 
him this ring, and was grieved to see the doctor 
depart, much offended at being refused such a 
trifle. When he and the young clerk were fairly 
out of sight, therefore, Bassanio felt unable to 
appear so ungrateful in the eyes of the doctor, 
and sent Gratiano after them with the ring, pre- 
ferring rather to test his wife’s faith in him, than 
to offend the savior of Antonio’s life. Gratiano 
overtook the pretended doctor and delivered up 
the ring, whereupon the lawyer’s clerk contrived 
to tease from him a ring which Nerissa, who 
copied well all her mistress’s doings, had placed 
upon her husband’s hand with similar injunctions. 


THE WITTY PORTIA. 


209 


This clone, they set sail for Belmont ; Bassanio 
and Gratiano in one ship, and Portia and Ne- 
rissa in another. The latter pair managed, how- 
ever, to reach Belmont first, and arrived shortly 
after nightfall, some hours before their husbands. 
They found Lorenzo and Jessica awaiting them 
in the moonlit gardens at Belmont, where they 
sat listening to the music from the palace which 
floated in softened strains in and out among the 
trees and fountains in the court-yard. 

A few hours later the travel-worn husbands 
arrived, accompanied by Antonio, and were ten- 
derly welcomed by their ladies and fully ques- 
tioned as to the results of the trial. In the midst 
of the conversation the mischievous Nerissa dis- 
cerned the loss of the ring from Gratiano’ s fin- 
ger, and commenced to accuse him of some in- 
constancy in parting with it. Portia overheard 
them disputing on the matter, and when Grati- 
ano commenced to make confession, she blamed 
him much for parting with his wife’s keepsake, 
and declared that Bassanio would not so lightly 
have parted with her love-token. At this Bas- 
sanio, unable to conceal his embarrassment, com- 
menced to explain, as eloquently as he could, how 
both Gratiano and himself -had been induced 
to part so with these rings -which had been so 
stuck with oaths upon their fingers. Portia pre- 
tended to be deaf to his excuses, and joining with 
14 


210 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Nerissa, both the roguish ladies rated their hus- 
bands unmercifully, pretending to believe that 
they had parted with their rings to some women 
as love-tokens'. 

Amid the protestations of the husbands, and 
the pretended anger of the wives, Portia and 
Nerissa suddenly produced the rings, and while 
'Bassanio- and Gratiano were struck dumb with 
wonder at seeing the jewels which they supposed 
graced the fingers of the doctor and his clerk in 
Padua, Portia related to the puzzled gentlemen 
and the astonished Antonio how his caus^ had 
been gained by a woman’s wit. 

So the troubles of Antonio ended merrily. 
His ships, which were supposed lost, came safe 
to port with a rich burden, and all was happi- 
ness at Belmont. Bassanio and Portia lived to 
the end of their days in such complete peace and 
happiness, as proved the -wisdom of the old Mer- 
chant of Venice in trusting to the inspiration of 
true love to find out its idol, even though hidden 
closely in a leaden casket. 




THE STORY OF ROSALIND; OR, AS YOU 
LIKE IT. 

(FROM SHAKESPEARE.) 

A LONG time ago a party of outlaws made 
their home under the spreading trees of a 
grand old forest. There they lived as free and 
as happy as Robin Hood and his merry men. 
These outlaws never attacked and plundered any 
one, however, not even the rich and powerful, 
as Robin Hood sometimes did. They were all 
brave and noble gentlemen, and their leader was 
rightfully a famous Duke. But he had a per- 
fidious and selfish brother, who had usurped his 
power, and driven him from his dominions. So 
he came with a part of his followers, to dwell in 
the forest. 

It was no mean palace in which to keep the 
state of a duke, — this glorious old forest of Ar- 
den. The sunlight floated in through spacious 
arches formed by intertwining boughs ; the soft 
grass carpeted it everywhere ; old moss-covered 
rocks served for couches, on which the courtiers 
lounged while they talked of art, of science, and 


212 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

of all things about which the outside world was 
busy. 

When they wished for food, the wood was fulir 
of birds, and game of all kinds ; the antlered 
deer ran freely in its thick recesses ; close by 
the forest, a small river flowed among clustering 
trees, in whose depths sported abundance of fish ; 
the shepherds, whose cottages were built on the 
outskirts of the forest, furnished them with milk, 
and fruits, and vegetables, so that they lacked for 
nothing which could please or tempt the appe- 
tite. When it was cold or stormy, they made 
tents of thick boughs, to protect them from the 
weather ; and at night their beds of leaves 
yielded them sweetest slumbers. The forest was 
indeed a delightful dwelling-place, better than 
any royal abode, for they lived there a happy 
and natural life, free from care ; while in the 
palace, “ Uneasy lies the head that wears a 
crown.” 

The outlawed Duke had a daughter left in the 
court of his usurping brother, after whom his 
heart constantly yearned ; so that, more than all 
his other misfortunes, this remembrance of her 
cast a shadow over his life. Most men would 
have been morose and bitter under all his 
wrongs, but the Duke was so sweet and gentle 
of spirit, so in harmony with the nature amid 
which he lived, that he could hear teachings of 


ROSALIND ; OR, AS YOU LIKE IT. 213 


peace and beauty and consolation in the mur- 
mur of the river, or the rustle of the leaves, and 
could draw wholesome lessons from his bitterest 
adversity. All his language was rich with a 
genial philosophy, and the golden autumn of his 
life was bathed in a mellow sunlight, which 
seemed to reflect back upon, and shed itself 
over, his whole past. 

In wonderful contrast to the Duke was one of 
his noblemen, Jacques, a man about his own age, 
who mocked at all the world, and found no good 
in life. He had travelled over all the earth, and 
seen the fashions and manners of all countries, 
and had been so selfish, very likely, in the pur- 
suit of his own pleasure, that he had done no 
good to any one ; so now, in growing old, he 
saw no good in other people. 

They had a great many occupations and 
amusements in the forest. Sometimes they re- 
clined under the spreading shade, and talked to- 
gether. Jacques vented his bitterness against 
the world, and the Duke restrained him with his 
serene and happy temper. When they tired of 
talk and discussion, the pensive Ainiens, who 
was a sweet singer, sang them songs. Here is 
something he sang as he lay under the green- 
wood-tree : — 

“ Under the greenwood-tree 
Who loves to lie with me, 

And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird’s throat, 


214 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


Come hither, come hither, come hither: 

Here shall he see 
No enemy 

But winter and rough weather. 

“ Who doth ambition shun, 

And loves to live i’ th’ sun, 

Seeking the food he eats, 

And pleased with what he gets, 

Comejiither, come hither, come hither: 

Here shall he see 
No enemy 

But winter and rough weather.” 

Meanwhile, in the palace of Duke Frederick, 
the beautiful Rosalind had grown to be a tall and 
graceful maiden. She lived with her cousin 
Celia, and was beloved by those in the palace, 
and idolized by the people, who sympathized 
with her father’s wrongs. She could not have 
been consoled for the banishment of her dear 
father, if it had not been for her cousin Celia, 
whose love for her “ was dearer than the natural 
bond of sisters.” Rosalind was the lovelier and 
more gifted of the two girls, but Celia felt no 
jealousy on that account. To hear her lovely 
cousin praised, to know that all loved her, was to 
Celia the greatest delight in the world. Indeed, 
her goodness to Rosalind was so great, that to all 
beholders it covered her father’s vices with a 
mantle of sweet charity, so that many forbore to 
censure him, for the sake of his gentle daughter. 

It happened that one of the largest estates in 


ROSALIND ; OR, AS YOU LIKE IT. 215 

the duchy had belonged to a noble lord, Sir 
Rowland de Bois by name, who had died shortly 
after the banishment of the old Duke, whose 
faithful friend and ally he had been till death 
ended their friendship. Sir Rowland had three 
sons ; the eldest Oliver, the second Jacques, the 
third and youngest, Orlando.. He left to his 
oldest son, as is still the custom, the whole of 
his estate, and bequeathed to him the care and 
rearing of both his brothers. As soon as his 
father died, Jacques, the second son, who was a 
recluse and scholar in his tastes, went to Paris, 
to spend his life in scholarly pursuits, leaving 
only Orlando to the care of Oliver. 

Now, Oliver, who was not naturally a vicious 
person, had become soured and morose that na- 
ture had not treated him more kindly. He was 
neither handsome nor intellectual. Both his 
brothers excelled him in good gifts. He was 
forced to see their better qualities, and contrast 
them with his own, and so there arose in him a 
spirit of envy, which, by constant secret nourish- 
ing, had become very bitter and powerful. So 
much did this feeling increase as he saw how 
handsome and elegant in person his brother Or- 
lando was growing under his roof ; how all his 
servants followed him with pleased looks, and 
proffers of a more ready service than they 
yielded to himself, their rightful master, that he 


216 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

began to bitterly bate this younger brother, and 
to have hidden wishes for his ruin or death. 

Orlando, for his part, was a youth of fire and 
spirit, who could not easily brook the neglect and 
and unconcealed disdain with which his brother 
treated him. He had, in spite of many rebuffs 
and discouragements, managed to acquire some 
learning and manly accomplishments. He talked 
well, rode well, was a little of a poet, and a tol- 
erable musician, for which acquirements Oliver 
hated and envied him the more. So, when a 
public wrestling match and trial of skill was ap- 
pointed, in which any one could take part against 
a famous wrestler of the Duke’s, Oliver was 
glad to hear that Orlando had offered himself in 
the contest, secretly hoping he might be injured, 
and perhaps die of his hurts. 

The day for the wrestling-match came ; and 
after many had received their death-throw from 
the arms of Charles, the Duke’s wrestler, Or- 
lando appeared, to show his skill. So handsome 
w^as the youth, that all hearts were interested in 
his safety ; and even the hard Duke sent his 
daughter and Rosalind to entreat that he would 
not enter the lists. Orlando would not with- 
draw, but made stronger by the sweet words of 
sympathy which he had heard from the royal 
ladies, wrestled with Charles, and gained an easy 
victory. But, just as he was about to receive 


ROSALIND; OR, AS YOU LIKE IT. 217 

some mark of royal favor, his announcement that 
he was the son of Sir Rowland de Bois, the 
friend of his injured brother, checked Duke 
Frederick’s praises, who refused to honor him, 
and went out in anger. 

Rosalind was not so ungracious. Lingering 
behind with her cousin Celia, she could not help 
glancing at the youth, whos§ only crime was 
that he was son of her father’s friend. Having 
glanced, she could not fail to discover that he was 
handsome, and of noble manners. Half blushing 
at her boldness, — with the graciousness of the 
princess, blended with the coyness of the maiden, 
— she approached the hero, and speaking a few 
encouraging words, threw over his bowed head a 
chain which she took from her neck, and, as if 
frightened at her boldness, quickly followed her 
cousin from the place. 

Orlando stood for a moment in a tumult of 
feeling. The rude repulse he had received from 
the Duke had humiliated him, but the sweet 
voice of Rosalind rung in his ears, and quickened 
all the beating of his pulses. While he stood ir- 
resolute, an old servant, named Adam, who had 
been in his father’s service three-score years, 
came to speak with him. With many tears, the 
old man told him that his brother Oliver was 
plotting against his life, and urged him to fly 
from his malice. Then he placed in his young 


218 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


master’s hands his wages, the hoarded savings 
of many years, and begged that he might follow 
him into any exile. 

Orlando resolved instantly to seek the v forest 
of Arden, where he had heard that the Duke 
still kept some kind of state, and to join the band 
of exiles. So he departed, with the faithful 
Adam, on the journey. 

When Celia and Rosalind met Duke Freder- 
ick after the wrestling-match, they found him in 
evil humor. He had been reminded of his 
baseness by the name of Sir Rowland de Bois, 
and the sight of Rosalind always kept in mind 
his banished brother. Besides, he noted how 
her superior beauty won all eyes, while his^. 
daughter and heiress moved with her like a 
humble satellite. At this moment his anger 
broke out. Accusing Rosalind, with brutal rage, 
of treasonable intents, he ordered her to depart 
from the court, bade her be forever exiled, like 
her father, and forbade Celia longer to harbor 
her. Then he swept away in a terrible fury, 
without glancing back at the half-frightened, 
half-stupefied maidens. 

But when Rosalind declared that she would 
seek out her fathers dwelling-place, Celia in- 
stantly protested she would not let her go alone, 
but would go with her to the world’s end. And 
when Rosalind had faintly combated with this 


ROSALIND; OR, AS YOU LIKE IT. 219 


resolve, and did not overcome it, the two girls 
made their plot, which was a clever one, and 
prompted by Rosalind’s wit. They resolved that 
Celia should dress as a shepherdess, — one who 
was not poor in lands or flocks, — and because 
the name had reference to her state, she should 
be called Aliena ; while Rosalind, who was more 
than common tall, and had, when her spirits 
were not crushed by sadness, a saucy air and 
ready tongue, should be her brother Ganymede, 
dressed in a boy’s guise. They arranged to 
carry away all the gold they could secrete, and 
all their jewels. Then taking with them, half 
for protection and half for company, the court 
jester, Touchstone, they set out at night, very 
privately, on their journey to the forest of 
Arden. 

They were not long in reaching the edge of 
the forest ; and buying a cottage there, together 
with some land and flocks of sheep, they lived as 
brother and sister to all who knew them. They 
dared not yet disclose themselves to the Duke, 
fearing lest their disguise might become known 

o o o 

to others, and they resolved to wait for a favor- 
able time to make themselves known to him. 
But often in the forest aisles Rosalind got a 
glimpse of her noble father, and, seeing him, 
longed to throw herself into his arms, or at his 
feet, to crave his blessing. 


220 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Before the coming thither of the disguised 
maidens, the young Orlando, with his old servi- 
tor, had joined the train of the Duke, and now 
lived as one of them, in Arden. And in this 
forest-life which was so in harmony with the 
sweet thoughts that run to music in the brain of 
youth, Orlando had grown to cherish the remem- 
brance of the sparkling eyes that had shone on 
him, and the tender voice that had praised him, 
when the chain he wore was first placed about 
his neck. And from dwelling constantly on 
them, he found he could not get those thoughts 
out of his head ; and so, perhaps, to be rid of 
them, he put them on paper in rhyming lines, 
which he called poetry. In plain words, he 
began to be so much in love with Rosalind that 
he carved her name on the trees of the forest, 
and writing all sorts of sonnets and odes to her 
beauty, let the ^sheets on which they were writ- 
ten fly all about the wood, as if to tease the 
wood-nymphs and the Dryads with the knowl- 
edge that there was one more lovely than they. 
After a while Celia came upon this moon-struck 
lover, stretched at his length along the ground 
under a tree, talking to himself of the lady of 
his thoughts. She picked up, not far distant, 
one of the sonnets he had written on the same 
subject. This she took to her cousin, who 
looked a pretty beardless boy in her disguise of 


ROSALIND; OR, AS YOU LIKE IT. 221 

Ganymede, and bade her read it. Then it 
turned out that Rosalind was not a whit more 
sensible than Orlando, except that being a 
woman, she could dissemble better, but loved 
the handsome youth after the same fashion that 
he loved her. What should she do next but set 
out in the forest to meet Orlando, still in her 
disguise, and having met him, engaged him for 
a talk, in which she played the saucy stripling 
to perfection. She accused him of being in love, 
and he confessed it. On which she promised to 
cure him of so ridiculous a complaint. Orlando, 
all the while believing her a shepherd youth, but 
in spite of himself drawn to her by an interest 
which was, very likely, a subtle instinct of rec- 
ognition, asked her how she would cure love. 
Then she told him he might woo her as if she 
were indeed his Rosalind, and she, affecting all 
the caprices and humors of a girl, would so dis- 
gust him with the sex, that he would never wish 
to see a woman again. Thus began a friendship, 
and constant meetings between them, in which 
Orlando sighed the more for his true Rosalind, 
and the masquerading maiden grew more and 
more deep in love. 

When Duke Frederick discovered that his 
daughter had fled with Rosalind, his rage was 
dreadful to behold. And happening at the same 
time to hear that Orlando was also missing, he 


222 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


affected to believe that the maidens had shared 
his flight, and so sent for Oliver, to hear what 
he knew of them. 

The Duke was so far past reason, that Oliver 
could not convince him that he was no friend to 
his brother Orlando, and no confidant of his in- 
tentions. Frederick would hear nothing, but ac- 
cusing Orlando, and all bearing the name of De 
Bois, of treason, bade Oliver instantly go seek his 
missing brother, and bring him back, or he also 
should be banished, and all his estates confis- 
cated. So Oliver, stripped of lands and money, 
was pushed out to seek the brother whom he had 
loved so little, and doomed to be beggared till he 
had found him. 

One sunny afternoon Celia and Rosalind 
awaited the coming of Orlando, at one of the 
cool green trysting-places in the forest, where 
they were wont to meet. Already the sun had 
begun to go down, and he was not come, when, 
looking up, they espied some one else approach- 
ing them. This was a man evidently worn and 
disheveled by a long and tedious journey. His 
clothes were dusty and ragged, his beard and 
hair uncut., and his eyes swollen like one who 
lacked sleep. Still, in his bearing and voice, he 
bore some marks of nobleness which the two 
maidens could not fail to distinguish. He asked 
them if they were not the shepherds, Ganymede 


ROSALIND; OR, AS YOU LIKE IT. 223 

and Aliena ; and when they answered him, he 
told them this story : — 

He was the cruel Oliver whom Orlando had 
described to them, and, driven forth by Duke 
Frederick to seek his brother, he had come at 
last to the forest of Arden. Worn out with 
fatigue, he lay down to sleep under the shade 
of a tree, and so Orlando came upon him, as he 
lay stretched in slumber. At that very moment 
a snake, ugly and venomous, had coiled about 
the sleeper’s neck, ready to strike him with 
deadly fangs. In the thicket close behind him 
lurked a lioness, her eyes fixed on the sleep- 
ing man, waiting for some movement to prove 
he was living, before she seized him as her 
prey. 

All this Orlando saw, and for a moment the 
temptation assailed him to leave this brother, 
his enemy and tormentor, to his fate. But a 
nobler feeling triumphed ; and while the snake, 
frightened at the lioness, uncoiled and sped into 
the bushes, Orlando attacked the beast and slew 
her. Then falling on the neck of his awak- 
ened brother, who saw the generous deed, they 
wept in brotherly affection and mutual forgive- 
ness. 

All this Oliver told with an eloquence which 
moved the sympathetic Celia to tears ; and then 
drawing forth a bloody handkerchief which Or- 


224 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

lando had sent in token of a slight wound the 
lioness had given him, which would prevent his 
keeping tryst that day, he gave it to Ganymede. 
To his wonder, the seeming boy fainted like a 
weak girl at sight of it ; but recovering soon, 
and being assured Orlando was safe, she begged 
Oliver tell him how well she had feigned to be 
the real Rosalind. 

Now, events began so to entangle themselves, 
that Rosalind was fain to disclose her sex. Be- 
side her love for Orlando, which made her wish 
to be known, and her affection for her father, 
which made her desire his approval, a scornful 
young shepherdess, named Phoebe, had fallen in 
love with her, in her disguise of Ganymede. 
Now this same handsome Phoebe was sought 
after by a love-lorn swain, Silvius, whom she 
scorned with as much ardor as she professed to 
love Ganymede. Most strange of all, the som- 
bre Oliver had fallen captive to the dark eyes 
of Celia, and wished to marry her. So that 
Rosalind began to think it time to clear up all 
mysteries, and have the happy wedding-days 
fixed. 

Thus the whole party met before the Duke, 
who had heard of the strange pranks Cupid was 
playing in his dominions. From most of them 
Ganymede exacted a promise. From the Duke, 
if that his daughter should appear, he would 


ROSALIND; OR, AS YOU LIKE IT. 225 

give her in marriage to Orlando ; from Orlando, 
that he would marry his Rosalind if she ap- 
peared ; from Phoebe, that she should accept 
Silvius for her husband, if she found herself not 
of a mind to marry Ganymede. To which they 
all agreed. 

Then retiring for a little, she came in again in 
her dress of Rosalind, her lovely face stained 
with blushes, her eyes full of glad tears, and, 
throwing herself into her father’s arms, she 
asked his blessing. The joyous Duke folded her 
again and again to his breast, and then gave her 
to the proud Orlando. So there was a triple 
wedding. For when Orlando married Rosalind, 
Oliver was joined to Celia ; and the discomfited 
Phoebe, finding that Ganymede was one of her 
own sex, made Silvius happy with her hand. 
And to make this wedding-feast most perfect, at 
the height of the joy Jacques de Bois came in 
bringing great news : how Duke Frederick had 
sallied out with some followers, to make war on 
the outlawed Duke and his train, but that, 
meeting with a hermit of great piety, he had 
strangely been converted, and offered in pen- 
itence to restore to the elder Duke all his 
rights. 

So the true Duke got his crown again, and 
Orlando and Rosalind were his heirs ; while 

15 


226 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Celia and Oliver lived happily on their great 
estates. 

Nor did Orlando forget his noble servant, old 
Adam, but took care of him till his death. As 
for old Jacques, the grumbler, he vowed he 
would go with Duke Frederick and be converted 
too ; and let us hope that really happened to 
him. 




MACBETH, KING OF SCOTLAND. 

(FROM SHAKESPEARE.) 

FTPON a naked, blasted heath, where neither 
^ tree nor bush could live, so barren was it 
in its bleakness, three witches, gray, crooked, 
and misshapen, hovered round a boiling, bub- 
bling caldron. The fire crackled under the huge 
vessel, from whose blazing depths came forth a 
vile and sickening odor. The edge was lurid 
with sulphurous flames, which gleamed upon the 
horrid faces of the unclean hags who tended it ; 
lighting up in ghastly vividness their skinny 
arms, their sharp faces, fringed with grizzled, 
scattering hairs, which looked like , beards, and 
showing more plainly than the light of day their 
eyes, — staring and blood-colored, yet expres- 
sionless as the faces of the dead. 

The thunder pealed dully in the sky, and the 
rain fell in fine drops, each one 'of which seemed 
to pierce the clothing to the skin, as if it were a 
point of steel. Amid the rain and wind these 
strange beings moved slowly round and round 
the caldron’s edge, uttering their weird incanta- 


228 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

tions. Their smileless faces wore the blackness 
of the night ; their voices sounded like the cry 
of vultures, or the shriek of the harpies when 
they swoop upon their prey. 

What was the business of these minions of 
Hecate on the heath of Forres on such a night ? 
Their meetings never boded good ; their only 
purpose was to foster crime, to hint black deeds 
to minds still innocent, to poison with venomous 
suggestion the most wholesome conscience. All 
day they had watched the distant smoke and 
dust of battle, and only when the exhausted 
armies paused at the coming of night, had they 
begun upon this spot their unearthly orgies. 

While they were still muttering and gibber- 
ing, two figures were seen riding across the plain 
on their way to the castle of Forres, from whose 
distant towers a light was shining here and there 
through the obscure mist. At sight of them, a 
sudden gleam of exultation lighted up the ex- 
pressionless faces .of the witches. The tallest 
horseman, still riding erect and proudly, in spite 
of the day’s fatigues, was Macbeth, Thane of 
Glainis, a kinsman of the Scottish king, chief of 
a royal clan, the handsomest, bravest, and proud- 
est of all King Duncan’s nobles. With him rode 
Banquo, another cousin of the king, a man of 
rare virtue ; not approved so much for his brave 
deeds, as for his wisdom in council ; shining 


MACBETH. KING OF SCOTLAND. 229 

rather in the quiet of peace than in the storms 
of war. Such were the two who crossed the 
heath together. The witches waited impatiently 
their coming. For them the magic caldron had 
been set, and to intercept them these secret hags 
had stretched among the blackened grass an in- 
visible circle which should detain their horses’ 
feet until they had had speech with the Thane 
of Glamis. 

Macbeth, unappalled in the midst of scenes of 
bloodiest carnage, started with fear as his horse’s 
feet stopped suddenly within the enchanted cir- 
cle. His brave spirit, fearless before all real and 
tangible dangers, was a slave to superstition, 
and the sight of these supernatural creatures 
daunted him more than a host of mailed enemies 
would have done. But the serene Banquo was 
moved by no such terrors. In his estimation 
these apparitions might be illusions of the eye, or 
creatures of the imagination. 

“ The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, 

And these are of them.” 

As they paused thus, the witches crossed their 
path, and with ghostly waving of her hands, and 
solemn utterance, the first spoke, — 

“ All hail, Macbeth ! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis.” 

The second approached, more horrible than the 
first, and with the same weird gestures, cried, — 
“ All hail, Macbeth ! hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor .” 


230 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Macbeth remained motionless with fear and 
astonishment. His eager hopes surmise the sec- 
ond title to be a prophecy. If the witches had 
power to divine rightly that he was Thane of 
Glamis, would they not also have known that 
the Thane of Cawdor was still living, and that 
not to him belonged the honor. 

In the next instant the third witch, a hag of 
more dreadful aspect than either of the others, 
repeated the strange motions in his path, and, in 
a whisper so sharp and sibilant, it seemed to 
pierce the marrow of his brain, hissed in his 
ear, — 

“ All hail, Macbeth ; thou shalt be king hereafter I” 

Then turning to Banquo, they repeated in the 
same alternation, — 

“ Hail ! lesser than Macbeth, and greater.” 

“ Not so happy, yet much happier.'* 

“ Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none: 

So all hail! Macbeth and Banquo! ” 

Then, as Macbeth, recovering himself a little, 
would have sought to question them, the witches, 
the blazing caldron, all the supernatural sur- 
roundings, vanished in a twinkling, and the two 
warriors were left alone in darkness on the va- 
cant heath. 

While they consulted with each other on the 
reality of the vision they had seen, they were 
met by two messengers from King Duncan, who 


MACBETH, KING OF SCOTLAND. 231 

was already awaiting their coming in the castle 
of Forres. These were too intent upon deliver- 
ing their message, to notice the distraught man- 
ners of Macbeth and Banquo, but greeted them 
instantly with congratulations on their brave ser- 
vices that day to the Scottish throne. They 
told Macbeth that the king had appointed them 
to signify his value of his knightly deeds by in- 
vesting him with the titles of the Thane of Caw- 
dor, who had proved disloyal, and was thus 
stripped of his titles and estates, that they might 
be conferred upon more deserving shoulders. 

Macbetli was astonished almost beyond speech 
at the sudden fulfillment of the witches’ prophecy. 
What if they had indeed spoken truth ? He 
should be king hereafter! Might not the powers 
which had divined his greatness, which had put 
the crown into his thoughts, help now to place it 
on his head ? His quick-kindled ambition rose 
higher at the thought, and with a powerful effort 
he shook off his abstraction, and rode hastily for- 
ward to greet his sovereign. 

The battle of Forres had been a decisive one 
in the long civil war, and Duncan’s kingdom 
now promised to return to peace and security. 
Macbeth purposed returning to his castle at In- 
verness, to recruit from his bloody exploits in the 
field, and the old monarch, loth to part with his 
loved kinsman and subject, anxious also to show 


232 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

him all possible honor, decided to accompany him 
to his castle and spend a night there before jour- 
neying to the royal palace. Macbeth had hastily 
dispatched a messenger informing his wife of his 
new title of Cawdor, and giving the details of his 
encounter with the witches. As soon as Duncan 
announced his intention of becoming his guest 
for a night, he sent another messenger, bidding 
her make preparations for their arrival. Then 
the royal train set out for Inverness. 

At the head rode Duncan — white-haired and 
benignant old monarch — whose enemies called 
him weak and doting, but whose friends knew 
him honorable and brave, though credulously 
trustful, and guileless as a child. Beside him 
rode his two sons, Malcolm and Donalbain, both 
in the early dawn of manhood, noble and refined 
in aspect, but inheriting a trifle too much of their 
father’s gentle spirit to cope well with the rude 
exigencies of the times. Near them, the grave 
and reticent Banquo, attended by his young son 
Fleance, the hope and promise of his age. In 
the midst of the train was the noble Macduff, 
one of the most noted thanes of Scotland : tem- 
perate in his judgment, enthusiastic in his loves 
and hates ; not the equal of Macbeth in elegance 
of bearing and in polish of manners, but no whit 
behind him in absolute bravery ; as trustworthy 
in the council hall as in the battle-field ; who 


MACBETH, KING OF SCOTLAND. 233 

breathed in loyalty as the air of his native heath, 
and whose honor was as inflexible as death. 
Towering above them all, — conspicuous for his 
striking figure, his gallant horsemanship, — read- 
iest in wit and in those delicate flatteries which 
charm the ear of royalty, — dashing, spirited, 
handsome, and brave, rode Macbeth, the new- 
made Thane of Cawdor. 

Macbeth’s messengers rode well. Scarcely 
had the first delivered the letter to his mistress, 
which informed her of her lord’s accession to the 
titles and estates of Cawdor, and the prediction 
of the weird sisters, before the mailed heel of the 
second messenger clanked on the paved hall of 
the castle, and breathless with the haste of his 
journey, told her of Duncan’s immediate visit at 
Inverness. 

Lady Macbeth was reputed a worthy match 
for her noble husband in all the qualities which 
could become her station. Her beauty was un- 
questioned, her manners elegant and polished 
to a remarkable degree in that age of warfare ; 
and though her mind w r as wonderfully bold and 
original, she concealed such masculine attributes 
under a mask of the most womanly softness and 
delicacy. Not inferior to Macbeth in any of the 
qualities which won him scores of friends, she far 
excelled him in strength of intellect and will, and 
in unshaken purpose. And her ambition was 


234 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

as riotous as his. The witches’ predictions and 
their partial fulfillment had bred in the mind of 
Macbeth a thousand half-formed thoughts of vil- 
lainy. In her mind the conclusion was immedi- 
ate. The knowledge of the final honor which 
had been promised her husband, the u Hail, 
Macbeth ; thou shalt be king hereafter ! ” and 
the intelligence that Duncan slept that night 
under her castle’s roof, were sufficient to bring 
her to the resolve that the obstacles which lay 
between the prophecy and its fulfillment, could 
be removed by murder. The resolve once taken, 
no doubts, nor fears, nor remorse, could move 
her from it. 

Macbeth spurred on before his guests, and 
arrived a short time in advance of the party. 
Their first tender greetings hurriedly exchanged, 
she laid before him, first in dark hints, and then 
in open, undisguised words, her plan to make 
him king of Scotland. 

At first Macbeth recoiled in horror from the 
revolting aspect of his own hidden thought. 
But though the frank wickedness of his wife 
startled him at first, there needed but little per- 
suasion to bring him to lend himself to her de- 
signs, and before the kingly party entered the 
gates of Inverness, it was resolved between this 
guilty pair that the trusting old monarch, their 
kinsman and their guest, made sacred to them by 


MACBETH, KING OF SCOTLAND. 


235 


all the laws of hospitality and loyalty, should 
never again cross alive the threshold over which 
he had thus graciously passed, to confer upon it 
honor and distinction. 

Duncan was unwarned of his fate, and he read 
no presage of it in the faces of his treacherous 
host and hostess. Macbeth was tremulous and 
eager. The shallowest observer could have read 
his agitation in his uncertain voice, in the tremor 
of his hand, his restless eye ; but all believed that 
the honors heaped on him had disconcerted his 
usually unruffled spirit. But his wife wore a 
mask impenetrable to all scrutiny. When she 
met the royal train, it was in her richest attire, 
with jewels braided in her yellow hair. Her 
soft eyes beamed nothing but welcome, and no 
rebellious flush on her fair cheek told of the 
murderous passion that stirred in her blood. 

That night, when all the reveling had ceased, 
and Ducan’s attendants, worn out with eating 
and drinking, slept their soundest sleep, Mac- 
beth and his ambitious wife met in the ante- 
chamber to the King’s apartment. The grooms 
who guarded his couch, had been drugged by her 
fair hands ; she forced upon her wavering spouse 
the daggers with which to do the bloody deed, 
and, spurred on by her scorn and her entreaties, 
he entered Duncan’s chamber and slew him as 
he slept.* Then, shuddering at their crime, so 


236 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

dreadful in the freshness of its commission that 
they dared not look into each other’s eyes lest 
each should read condemnation and horror of the 
other’s deeds, they retired to their apartment to 
cleanse themselves of the blood upon their hands 
and weapons, and await the event of this night’s 
work. 

In the early morning the castle was filled with 
confusion and alarm. Macduff was the first to 
discover the murder, and frenzied with horror, 
he roused servants, guests, and kinsmen, from 
their beds. All was dismay and terror, and in 
the tumult, Malcolm and Donalbain, fearing 
treachery for tkemselves, fled instantly. Too 
weak to await what fate might bring them, they 
hastened to England, and drew suspicion on 
themselves by their flight, that they had been 
guilty of their father’s murder. Banquo may 
have suspected his noble friend Macbeth, but he 
was silent, and made no confidant of their en- 
counter with the witches ; and in a short time, 
by reason of his near kinship with the dead mon- 
arch, as well as his popularity with the soldiers 
and populace, Macbeth easily made himself king. 
Thus the witches’ prophecy was fulfilled. 

But the crown thus gained did not sit easily 
on the wearer’s head. Beside, those secret mid- 
night hags upon the heath of Forres had declared 
that Banquo’s children should be kings. And 


MACBETH, KING OF SCOTLAND. 23T 

Macbeth, who believed the witches to be uner- 
ring when they predicted his greatness, dared to 
hope that he could thwart their power when it 
ran counter to his own wishes. He plotted then 
to take the life of Banquo and his only child, 
young Fleance, that there might be no possibility 
of their succession to the crown. 

To compass this he made a banquet, and in- 
vited Banquo as the noblest and most honored 
guest. At the time he was expected to ride 
through the vast grounds which surrounded the 
royal palace, three murderers, whom Macbeth 
had hired to do his bloodiest crimes, set upon 
Banquo and his son. Banquo was instantly dis- 
patched, but Fleance escaped, and fled to Eng- 
land, where he knew he should join his royal 
cousins, Malcolm and Donalbain. 

After the murder was done, and the bloody- 
handed assassins had received their fee, Macbeth 
entered his banquet-hall. His mind was much 
disturbed at the escape of Fleance, but he dis- 
sembled his trouble, and when he was seated at 
the feast with his nobles, he pledged their absent 
peer in his own royal glass, uttering smooth- 
tongued regrets that Banquo was not present 
with them. 

Before his words were done, his guilty imagi- 
nation began to work, and lie seemed to see 
before him, in his own royal chair, the ghost of 


238 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Banquo, with its gaping wounds and dripping 
blood. 

His reason and self-command gave way at the 
sight, and while the wondering guests saw only 
the empty chair, and the wild, distraught looks 
of their new monarch, Macbeth beheld his vic- 
tim shake his gory locks at him in solemn 
threatening, and silently withdraw. 

Thrice did the ghost appear, and thrice did 
Macbeth cower in abject horror at the dreadful 
sight, until his wife — now at the summit of her 
wishes, as the Queen of Scotland — bade the 
company depart, since some strange freak of 
fancy made her lord unfit for guests and ban- 
quets. 

Unhappy Macbeth ! he had paid too large a 
price for his greatness. No more wdiolesome 
sleep visited the pillow where he laid his weary 
head. His nights were filled with dreadful visit- 
ants, and his days were spent in devising plans 
by which he might make his power more stable 
and enduring. Remorse could not bring him 
penitence. He pictured himself in a sea of 
blood, whose shores were boundless. It was as 
easy to go forward on its crimson waves as to 
turn back. Since he had stained his hands with 
blood, courage, hope, and pity seemed dead to 
him. 

But the unhappy woman who had shared his 


MACBETH, KING OF SCOTLAND. 239 

crimes — the dearest partner of his greatness — 
was even more pitiably wretched. In the first 
enthusiasm of her ambition she was not appalled 
by any crime. She could scorn her weaker 
spouse because he feared to look upon the blood 
his hands had shed. But in her soul the revul- 
sion of feeling had been greater and more terri- 
ble. More reticent and heroic than Macbeth, 
feeding on her remorse in silence lest she should 
add to the bitter thoughts that poisoned his life, 
she constrained herself to smile, and flatter, and 
play the part of royalty, while in her heart she 
carried an eternal wound, the slow agony of con- 
science. Nature avenged itself on the mask she 
wore, and in the dead of night, when she strove 
to forget her tortures in sleep, remorse became 
her conqueror. Night after night her wonder- 
ing attendants watched her rise from her couch, 
and with a lighted taper in her hand, — fast- 
locked in sleep, with glazed and open eyes, in 
which a fixed horror seemed frozen, — she 
traversed the corridors till she reached a certain 
antechamber. Then with repeated rubbing of 
her hands, she sought to cleanse them from some 
fancied stains of blood. The sighs that heaved 
her breast were piteous enough to move even 
the ghost of her murdered victim, and when her 
frail form was wearied beyond endurance, she 
went back to her wretched couch, still wrapt in 


240 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

sleep, to wait the waking of another miserable 
day. 

Only one consolation was left the wicked pair. 
As their love for each other had been strong in 
innocence, it was still supreme in guilt. Misery 
only cemented their attachment more firmly, till 
they seemed to have but one life and one 
thought. If his wife had been his temptress, 
Macbeth had no reproach for her; and in his 
darkest hours her love was ready to shelter and 
protect and comfort him. 

The greatest of Italian poets, Dante, has a 
story of two guilty lovers, dying in their crimes, 
whose souls, even in the deepest torment, could 
never be separated, and who still found consola- 
tion in bewailing together their lost happiness. 
Like them, this unhappy husband and wife were 
one in love, in guilt, and in remorse. 

In the mean time, Macduff, whose loyalty had 
never despaired in the darkest hour of Scotland’s 
fortunes, had been in England trying to stimulate 
the young princes, Malcolm and Donalbain, to 
return and head an army, which he promised 
should welcome them as soon as they set foot on 
their native soil. Macbeth heard of his efforts, 
and one of the most abhorrent acts of his life 
is the way he revenged himself upon Macduff. 
Knowing the wife and children of the latter were 
left at home in an ungarded castle, he sent 


MACBETH, KING OF SCOTLAND. 


241 


thither a band of ruffians, who murdered in cold 
blood the defenseless wife and her pleading 
babes. 

At length the rumors of Macduff’s success 
alarmed the monarch. He resolved to have re- 
course again to the augurs of his present for- 
tunes. He would seek the cave of Hecate, and 
conjure the witches to unfold another page of the 
future, to tell him what was to be the end of his 
vexed and miserable life. 

He found the cave — a dismal, subterraneous 
haunt — where they were wont to hold their 
midnight revels. The walls dripped with damp- 
ness, which felt to Macbeth’s groping fingers, 
slimy and thick, like human gore. Bats of 
monstrous size flitted through the noisome air ; 
reptiles, cold and noiseless, glided under foot. 
In the midst the caldron burned, and about it 
glided the dimly seen forms of the weird sisters. 

In this place Macbeth entreated those evil 
beings to tell him of his own fate, and who 
should wear the crown after him. The witches 
would not answer. They told the monarch he 
should hear their masters. Straightway the 
rocky floor opened, and from the gaping fissure 
rose an armed head. 

It cried, “Beware Macduff!” and disap- 
peared. 

A moment more, and to the loud roar of 
16 


242 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

thunder, a second head rose up, dripping with 
gore. It conjured Macbeth to be bold and reso- 
lute, since he need not fear till Birnam wood 
should come to Dunsinane. Again the vision 
sank, and in answer to his thoughts, he saw a 
long line of shadowy forms, wearing the Scottish 
crown, and each bearing the arms of the house 
of Banquo, glide slowly by. After them fol- 
owed the pale ghost of Banquo, who pointed 
in solemn warning to the dim procession, and 
vanished into thin air as Macbeth gazed on him. 

Disheartened at the sight, Macbeth departed 
from the cave, despairing of leaving the succes- 
sion to his own issue. The same voice which 
had said, “ Hail, Macbeth ; thou shalt be king 
hereafter ! ” had declared that Banquo’s chil- 
dren should be kings. And he no longer dared 
* doubt the power of Hecate and her attend- 
ants. 

But he had some gleams of comfort. They 
had declared he should be unconquered till Bir- 
nam wood should come to Dunsinane. The for- 
est of Birnam was three miles distant from his 
royal castle of Dunsinane ; and until the trees 
should tear out from the earth their firm roots, 
and march upon his castle, he might sleep in 
safety. At least, he should be unconquered, 
and should die a king. After him, let Banquo’s 
pale progeny take the crown. 


MACBETH, KING OF SCOTLAND. 243 

And now the sons of Duncan, and the fiery 
Macduff, infuriated at the slaughter of his wife 
and babes, had landed on the shores of Scotland. 
Their army was gathered. They were march- 
ing towards Dunsinane to beleaguer the usurper 
in his very stronghold. Macbeth heard of their 
movements, and buckling on his armor, awaited 
the approach of their forces. His courage rose 
high at the first scent of battle, and his cheek, 
paled with the terrors which conscience had in- 
flicted, grew ruddy at the sound of the trumpets. 
While in the midst of his warlike preparations, 
a startled messenger came in with fear distorting 
all his visage. The forest of Birnam, three miles 
away, was moving towards them. It was al- 
ready coming across the heath, in the middle of 
which stood the castle of Dunsinane. The sen- 
tinels upon the outer walls had seen the strange 
spectacle, and, mad with fear, had fled back into 
the inner court-yards. 

Then Macbeth’s heart sank in despair.. Had 
fate so mocked him ? He seemed to hear a peal 
of ghostly laughter from the pit of Hecate, 
which rang the death-knell to his fortunes. As 
he thought thus, the cries and moanings of 
women told him that his wife, the last stay and 
comfort in his misery, was dead. He heard it 
with the strong calmness of despair, and gave no 
time to grief or lamentation. 


244 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Now he saw the double meaning of the pro- 
phetic warning which had bade him fear only 
when Birnam wood should move to Dunsinane. 
The army of Macduff and Malcolm threw down 
the huge branches of the Birnam forest, with 
which they had concealed their moving hosts, and 
from behind their leafy screens stood revealed in 
immense force. 

There was but a brief struggle. Macbeth 
was brave, but he could not fight against des- 
tiny. “ Fate is a spaniel ; we cannot beat it 
from us.” Before sunset the head of Macbeth 
was raised upon a pole above the walls of Dun- 
sinane by the conquering hand of Macduff, and 
its stony eyes looked down upon the hosts of 
Malcolm as he passed through the ca.stle gates, 
the crowned and rightful King of Scotland . 



THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES OF PERI- 
CLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 

(FROM SHAKESPEARE.) 

rriHE old city of Tyre was once one of the 
proudest and wealthiest cities on the globe. 
Its commerce was extensive, its merchants pros- 
perous, and its kings very powerful. But Tyre 
had lost something of its ancient grandeur when 
young Pericles ascended the throne of his fa- 
thers. Rival kingdoms had arisen whose power 
was feared and dreaded in Tyre. It was, there- 
fore, very necessary that the young prince, who 
was learned and thoughtful, and possessed the 
virtues of mature manhood, should ally himself 
in marriage with some kingdom whose influence 
and power would prop the falling fortunes of 
Tyre. 

With this purpose the prince began to look 
about him as soon as he was of age to marry. 
The kingdom of Syria was ruled by King Anti- 
ochus, a powerful but cruel monarch. He had 
one daughter of whom Pericles had heard as one 
of the fairest and most accomplished of women. 


246 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Antioch us offered this daughter in marriage to 
any princely suitor who could guess a certain 
riddle, which he made and propounded to alf* 
who came to woo her. If the suitor should 
guess the answer to the riddle, he was to receive 
the princess in marriage ; if he failed, his head 
was instantly struck off and placed on the pal- 
ace gates as a warning to all fool-hardy lovers. 
Notwithstanding this horrible penalty, however, 
many princes had lost their heads through their 
love for the lady, and day after day a row of 
ghastly heads rotted on the palace walls of An- 
tioch. 

Now Pericles was a prince of very subtle and 
clear intellect, and also possessed of undaunted 
courage. He did not believe so hard a riddle 
could be made that he could not unravel its 
meaning, and as he knew an alliance with the 
princess of Antioch would be most favorable to 
the prosperity of Tyre, he set out prepared to 
risk his head for the possession of her hand. 

He was received at the palace of Antiochus 
with much civility, and was urged very ear- 
nestly by the king not to peril his life so rashly, 
but Pericles was resolved on the attempt, and 
insisted on hearing the riddle propounded. 
Antiochus showed much anger at his reso- 
lution, and gave him the scroll which contained 
the fatal words. The princess herself, who was 


THE ADVENTURES OF PERICLES. 247 

usually unmoved at the fate - of her lovers, 
changed color, and trembled, in her anxiety for 
his fate. 

Pericles read the words of the riddle, and with 
a quickness which showed his wonderful judg- 
ment, he divined its meaning. But he also 
guessed tliat to answer it rightly would forever 
offend the king, and make him his enemy. So 
he stood irresolute before the king and princess. 
If he showed the king he had guessed the secret, 
he would draw upon himself the vengeance of 
Antiochus, which was powerful enough to follow 
him to Tyre ; if he failed to answer, his head 
was no longer his own. Thinking thus, he asked 
the king for some days in which to consider the 
matter. Antiochus, who read in the hesitation 
of Pericles the fact that his secret was discov- 
ered, granted his request, and Pericles went out 
of his presence, and in a few hours had fled the 
city and was on his way to Tyre. As soon as he 
had gone, Antiochus summoned to him one of his 
trusty villains, and instructed him to follow Per- 
icles without delay, and take his life at the first 
opportunity, by poison or dagger, or in any man- 
ner which suited the occasion best. But Peri- 
cles was prudent and far-seeing. He knew that 
by guessing the riddle which Antiochus had im- 
agined could never be solved, he had forever 
drawn upon himself the king’s wrath, and he 


248 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

judged that the •wicked monarch would pursue 
him to the uttermost with his schemes for ven- 
geance. He. knew, too, that Tyre was not strong 
enough to engage in war with Antioch, and he 
thought it best to secrete himself for the present, 
judging that Antiochus would not harm Tyre 
if he should absent himself for a time Trom that 
city and go into some other kingdom. As soon 
as he reached his own palace, therefore, he 
called to him a friend and counselor called Hel- 
icanus, a man of most remarkable probity and 
loyalty, and, leaving his kingdom and all his 
affairs in his hands, set sail for the city of Thar- 
sus. 

Pericles had heard rumors of a famine in 
Tharsus, and he prudently loaded his ships with 
corn, believing that by relieving the distresses 
of the people he should gain their good-will, and 
be able to remain there, quietly hidden from the 
vengeance of Antiochus. He arrived at Thar- 
sus and found Cleon, the governor, and his wife 
Dionyza, plunged in great affliction on account 
of the distress of the city. People were dying 
in the streets for want of food, and at the very 
gates of the governor’s palace young Pericles 
stumbled over the dead bodies of mothers, who 
lay clasping to their breasts the forms of their 
famished babes. 

The corn with which his ships were loaded 


THE ADVENTURES OF PERICLES. 


249 


afforded instant relief, and the grateful people 
overwhelmed him with gratitude and blessings. 
He stayed there for some time in peace and 
quietness, till suddenly a letter was received from 
the trusty Helieanus, informing him that Anti- 
ochus had discovered his refuge ajid would try 
any means to compass his death. 

On this, Pericles again took to his ships, which 
were still in the harbor of Tharsus, and, without 
proper preparation for the voyage, set out for 
any port which offered him shelter. Thus it 
happened, his ships not being properly manned 
and managed, that they were overtaken by a 
storm, which destroyed the vessel in which Per- 
icles was, and he was cast upon the coast of Pen- 
tapolis, on a barren shore, which was, however, 
only a few hours’ ride from the palace of the very 
good king Simonides. 

The waves which cast Pericles on this inhos- 
pitable-looking beach had engulfed all the worldly 
possessions he had brought with him from Tyre. 
He had thrown off' his garments in his buffeting 
with the waters, and stood almost naked upon 
the shore. A few honest old fishermen, who 
were fishing near by, accosted him with words 
of pity for his forlorn condition. One of them 
offered him food and shelter for his pressing 
needs, and all crowded around him to hear of his 
escape. 


250 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

They told him that the city of the good Simon- 
ides was only a few hours distant, and that on 
the morrow a grand tournament would be held 
in celebration of the princess Thaisa, the only 
child of Simonides. Whilst the fishermen were 
telling these things, to which Pericles listened 
with open ears, one of them dropped his net into 
the sea, and presently drew up, entangled in the' 
lines, a complete suit of armor, somewhat rusty, 
but still fit for wearing. Pericles seized a hope 
which the sight of this armor suggested, and 
begged the fisherman to give it him, that he 
might be able to attend the tourney on the mor- 
row, and joust in the princess’s honor, hoping 
that by his skill in feats of arms he might attract 
the notice, and win the favor of, the king. The 
kind-hearted fisherman consented, only request- 
ing Pericles to remember him if he were success- 
ful, and the good old man who had offered him 
shelter, generously promised his best gown to 
make a tunic to wear underneath his armor. So 
Pericles retired to rest under the humble roof 
of the fisherman, with his brain full of hopes and 
plans, and slept the sleep of great weariness. 

In the morning Pericles found himself quite 
bravely furnished forth. The wife of the fisher- 
man had worked all night to make him garments 
from the ample gown of her husband, and the 
armor had been mended and polished as well as 


THE ADVENTURES OF PERICLES. 251 

it might be. Besides all this, the old fellow lent 
him his only horse, and thus furnished, Pericles 
rode gallantly off for the court of Simonides. 

He arrived at the tournament just in time to 
enter his name on the lists, and pass in with the 
other knights who took part. Simonides and 
Thaisa sat upon a raised throne, placed under a 
crimson canopy at the extremity of the amphi- 
theatre in which the tourney was to take place. 
Pericles looked at the princess, and thought her 
the most beautiful woman he had ever gazed 
upon. Her face was modest, yet full of wit and 
sprightliness, and she was wonderfully graceful 
in person. 

The first knight rode in, bearing on his shield 
an Ethiop reaching for the sun, with this motto : 
44 Lux tua mihi vita ; ” then a second passed in, 
a third, a fourth, a fifth, and last came Pericles, 
his armor looking dull and tarnished beside the 
glittering suits of his rivals. The device on his 
shield was a withered branch, with a few green 
leaves budding from its top, and this motto: 
44 In hac spe vivo .” Notwithstanding the mean- 
ness of his attire, the princeliness of Pericles 
shone through his clothing, so that to the clear 
eyes of the princess he seemed the noblest and 
bravest of them all. 

The tourney commenced with the waving of 
colors, the sound of trumpets, and the ringing 


252 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

notes of the bugles. At the beginning of the 
combat Pericles and the first knight rode twice 
rapidly round the amphitheatre and approached 
each other at full speed with extended spears. 
At the shock of the onset both horses threw 
themselves nearly erect upon their haunches, and 
when the dust cleared away, the adversary of 
Pericles lay stretched, pale and fainting upon 
the earth. One after another thus engaged >vith 
him, and one by one they were left unhorsed 
and powerless, till at last, with broken spear and 
covered with the dust and sweat of the en- 
counter, young Pericles stood alone upon the 
field. Weary and dizzy from the affray, he dis- 
mounted, and knelt at the feet of the princess to 
receive the silver wreath of victory, which she 
placed upon his head. With her fair hand she 
gave him her colors to wear upon his helmet, 
and looking up into her face he gave and received 
a glance which sealed the fate of both. For 
Pericles knew from that moment that for him 
there lived no other woman, and Thaisa felt her 
heart melted in the ardent glance from the eyes 
of the young stranger. 

The tourney over, Simonides held a great 
banquet, at which all the nobles and ladies of the 
court were present. Among these, Pericles in 
his rusty armor proved himself as accomplished 
in the graces of the dance as in feats of arms. 







' 

. 

‘ a ) • > ' ■ 


THE' ADVENTURES OF PERICLES. 253 


Being pressed to show his skill in music, he took 
a lyre and improvised some words and music in 
praise of the princess, which more than ever won 
the heart of the king, who could not disguise his 
delight, but gave him the hand of Tliaisa as his 
partner in the dance. So the night wore on in 
feasting and revelry till the last candle burnt out 
in the banquet hall. 

Pericles remained some months at the court of 
Simonides. Every evening he resolved to leave 
the court on the following morning, and every 
morning he found some excuse for remaining one 
day more. The truth was, he loved very dearly 
the young princess, and believed that she loved 
him. But he knew his affairs were in so bad a 
state from the lasting enmity of King Antiochus 
that he felt it would be ungenerous in him to 
ask her to share his fallen fortunes. He had all 
this time kept his name and rank a secret from 
Simonides, believing his only safety was in his 
obscurity. But the noble old king bad treated 
him with such distinction as his merits deserved, 
without asking whether he was of proud or hum- 
ble origin. Simonides was one of the rarest of 
men, for he saw that true nobility was altogether 
in the man and not in his surroundings ; and 
the manner in which he treated Prince Pericles 
proved that his people did not prize him too 
dearly, when they esteemed him the best and 
wisest of rulers. 


254 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

Thaisa inherited her father’s spirit. To her, 
the young hero who had shown himself brave in 
arms, skilled in the elegant arts, and whose con- 
versation she found each day sparkling with wit 
and knowledge, was worthy of her love, even if 
he were beggared by adverse fortune. So when 
at length one day her father pressed her to de- 
cide on some one to whom she would give her- 
self in marriage, she went to her chamber and 
pouring out her heart in a letter to Simonides, 
she informed him that the shipwrecked stranger 
had gained her love, and she desired him only, 
of all men she had ever seen, to be her lord and 
husband. 

Simonides was delighted at this answer, and 
sent to bring the young people together in his 
presence. At first, affecting to be angry, he ac- 
cused Pericles of having secretly won his daugh- 
ter’s affections. Pericles answered that he did 
love the princess. He confessed so much, for 
who could look on her and fail to love her ? But 
he declared that, knowing his forlorn and beg- 
gared condition, he would sooner have died than 
made known his love. 

At this Simonides could no longer dissemble, 
but, joining the hands of the young couple, he 
blessed them as his son and daughter, and went 
instantly out to vent his great joy in prepara- 
tions for their immediate nuptials. Thus Per- 


THE ADVENTURES OF PERICLES. 255 

icles became the husband of this charming prin- 
cess, and continued in the court of Simonides in 
the enjoyment of a contentment so perfect, that 
it seemed as if the future could have no more ill 
fortune in store for him. 

But his adventures were not yet to cease. 
Nearly a year had passed since his marriage 
without hearing from his deserted kingdom of 
Tyre. Everything was not quiet in that city, 
however. Helicanus had ruled with great wis- 
dom in his stead, but the people did not accept 
him as their real ruler, and were impatient and 
angry at the long, unexplained absence of their 
proper lord. At last impatience rose to mutiny 
against Pericles, and a deputation of lords waited 
on Helicanus to inform him, that as he had long 
wielded the sceptre very wisely, they wished to 
place the crown on his head, whose deserts were 
no less than such an honor. It happened that 
Helicanus had just received news of the death of 
Antiochus, and he now knew that it would be 
safe for his master to return to Tyre. He there- 
fore begged the nobles to give him one year in 
which to find Pericles and restore to him his 
throne, and promised, if at the end of that time 
he were not found, to be himself crowned king. 
With this the citizens were obliged to be content, 
and this loyal minister of Pericles sent messen- 
gers and letters in all directions, to find the 


256 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

prince. After long search they heard of him in 
Pentapolis, and going to that city they besought 
him to accompany them back to Tyre. 

When Thaisa found that he was really a 
prince of so much repute, she did not love him 
more, since that was impossible, but she rejoiced 
at his good fortune, and begged him to go imme- 
diately to Tyre. He would have had her remain 
at her father’s court till he could go to his king- 
dom and make preparations to receive her, but 
she longed so much to accompany him that he 
had not the will to forbid her. A ship was fitted 
out with all possible comfort and elegance, an 
ample train of female attendants accompanied 
Thaisa, and in great state they set sail from the 
harbor of Pentapolis. Everything seemed to 
promise a calm and pleasant journey. But the 
ill fortune which had for a season seemed to for- 
get Pericles, again assailed him. A few days 
they sailed fairly and prosperously, but at the 
end of that time a violent storm arose, and the 
ship was beaten and tossed about by the waves. 
In the midst of this disaster, while the winds and 
the waves were at their worst, amid the roaring 
of waters, the creaking of timbers, and the vol- 
leying of thunder, an infant daughter was born 
to Pericles. Thaisa did not live to see the face 
of her babe ; for worn out with her anxiety, and 
the terror she had endured from the storm, she 


THE ADVENTURES OF PERICLES. 257 

fell into a stupor from which she could not be re- 
• covered, and breathed out her life on the bosom 
of her faithful servant, her nurse Lychorida. 
Pericles would have awaited the subsiding of the 
storm to put into the nearest port and give her 
queenly burial rites, but the superstition of the 
sailors had been aroused by the terrific storm. 
They insisted that the corpse of Thaisa should 
be thrown overboard, declaring that the storm 
would never abate while it was in the vessel. 
Pericles was obliged to yield to their clamors, and 
a chest was prepared for the body of the poor 
queen. Within this he spread the costliest stuffs 
the ship afforded, — cloths of gold and silver, 
rare spices, and choicest perfumes; then deco- 
rating her form with jewels, and shrouding it in 
satin, he placed Thaisa in the chest, and threw 
it into the sea. 

Behold the wretched Pericles left upon his 
battered ship, with the poor babe in his arms, 
who smiled at him with the unconscious tranquil- 
lity of infancy. His heart was so torn with the 
loss of his queen, that he could find no comfort 
in the blessed gift of this little daughter. He 
looked on each tender feature, and found in the 
eye, the chin, the forehead, some trace of his 
dear wife. But this likeness only made his 
anguish more keen. Rousing himself at length 
from the apathy of grief in which he was plunged, 
17 


258 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

he inquired what coast the ship sailed nearest. 
The sailors told him they were near Tharsus, 
but still a long; distance from Tvre. He recalled 
the ancient friendship which had existed between 
Cleon and himself, and directed the ship to make 
for that harbor. She did so, and he reached the 
city without further adventure, receiving a cor- 
dial welcome from the Governor and Dionyza. 

After the first warmth of the meeting and 
their condolings for the loss of his queen were 
over, Pericles placed his infant in the arms of 
Dionyza. He had bestowed upon her the name 
of Marina, from the sea, which was her birth- 
place. He begged these friends, in whom he 
had great confidence, to rear his child with their 
own daughter, declaring he would never cut his 
hair or shave his beard, until his daughter, now 
so tender an infant, should reach a marriageable 
age, and be united to a worthy husband. Hav- 
ing made these plans for her breeding and edu- 
cation, Pericles left the palace of Cleon and 
Dionyza, and returned to Tyre, where he re- 
ceived the sceptre from Helicanus, and com- 
menced a peaceful and just reign. 

In the mean time the costly chest in which 
Pericles had encased the body of his beloved 
wife had floated upon the waves, and was tossed 
ashore at Ephesus. Here some gentlemen, who 
were early abroad, found it among the wrecks, 


THE ADVENTURES OF PERICLES. 259 


lying in the sand. It happened that there dwelt 
upon the coast in Ephesus, one of the wisest of 
living physicians, named Cerimon. He knew 
the properties of all herbs and minerals, their 
powers of cure, and prepared such wonderful 
remedies as the world had never seen. To him, 
then, this chest containing the lifeless body of 
Thaisa was brought. When Cerimon beheld 
this box, his first conjecture was that it was 
filled with golden treasure which had been 
washed off some lost vessel, and cast ashore. 
He ordered his servants to tear open the lid, and 
the pungent odor of the spices, with which Peri- 
cles had surrounded the body of Thaisa, filled the 
whole apartment. He bent over the chest with 
some curiosity to find what was indeed inclosed 
there, and beheld the face of the most beautiful 
woman he had ever seen, upturned to his. 

Her pale hands were folded on her breast, 
and her lips and cheeks still glowed with the hue 
of life. Transfixed with admiration, Cerimon 
bent over her, and his eye was caught by a 
written scroll which Pericles had placed beside 
her. He opened it and read : — 

“ Here I give to understand, 

(If e’er this coffin drive a-land,) 

I, King Pericles, have lost 

This Queen, worth all our mundane cost. 

Who finds her, give her burying, 

She was the daughter of a King. 

Besides this treasure for a fee, 

The gods requite his charity.” 


260 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


Now Cerimon had had great experience in 
bringing hack to life people who had lain a long 
time apparently dead. Especially he recalled 
the case of an Egyptian who had lain nine hours 
in a trance, and had afterward been recovered. 
Remembering this, he resolved, if it were with- 
in human means, to preserve a lady so beauti- 
ful, and so precious to the unknown writer of 
the scroll. He ordered preparation to be made 
for a medicinal bath, all kinds of stimulants to 
be got ready, and proceeded himself to use those 
powerful medicaments by which he hoped to 
restore her to life. His labors were rewarded, 
for in a short time the color began to deepen on 
her cheek, from her parted lips a slight breath 
began to issue, and Cerimon could feel under 
the silken drapery in which she was enveloped, 
the beating of her heart. He redoubled his 
efforts, and presently she sat up, and in a faint 
voice asked for her lord and husband. 

As soon as Thaisa was sufficiently recovered 
to hear the story of her supposed death, and her 
burial in the stormy waves, which had so kindly 
thrown her into the hands of Cerimon, all these 
circumstances were related to her. She was 
convinced that Pericles must have been lost in 
the sea from which she had been so wonderfully 
preserved, and she resolved to go to the temple 
of Diana, which was in Ephesus, and devote the 


THE ADVENTURES OF PERICLES. 261 

rest of her life to the service of that goddess. 
Cerimon did not gainsay her wish, and she was 
soon enrolled among those who officiated at the 
votive altars, and became renowned as the most 
beautiful and chaste of all the priestesses of 
Diana. 

Marina, left in the care of Cleon and Dionyza, 
grew daily in grace and loveliness. Her father 
had left as her attendant, the old servant Lycho- 
rida, who had nursed the queen in her illness 
upon the ocean, and in this faithful woman Ma- 
rina found a second mother. The young princess 
was instructed in all feminine arts. She learned 
to embroider in a manner which was considered 
wonderful even then, when embroidery was one 
of the fine arts. She sang and played on the 
harp with great skill, and she was an apt scholar 
in the languages. The only daughter of Dio- 
nyza, who was called Philoten, was the sharer 
of all the princess’s studies, and her close com- 
panion, but while Marina was graceful and 
lovely, Philoten was deformed and ugly ; where 
Marina excelled in accomplishments, she was 
left far behind. _ 

Dionyza, for her daughter’s sake, beheld the 
beauty and sweetness of Marina with envious 
eyes. That her only child, nurtured with so 
much maternal love and fondness, should be out- 
stripped by a stranger, was hateful beyond meas- 


262 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

ure to her. She did not allow this feeling to be 
restrained even by the remembrance of how 
much Cleon and herself, indeed, the whole city 
of Tharsus, owed to the father of this young girl, 
nor did the sweet disposition of Marina in the 
least soften her heart ; indeed, it served still 
more to steel it against her. 

About this time, when Marina was nearly 
fourteen, and according to the custom of the 
country in which she lived, nearly of marriage- 
able age, her old nurse Lychorida was taken ill 
and died. Marina had felt the growing coldness 
of Dionyza, and had clung with all the tender- 
ness of her nature to this one dear old friend, as 
the only remembrance left her of her dead 
mother and absent father. When she died, her 
grief passed all bounds, and she could not be 
comforted. She went every day to weep over 
the grave of her old nurse, and to strew it with 
flowers. 

While she was bent on the daily fulfillment 
of these pious rites, the wicked and ungrateful 
Dionyza conceived a fearful project. She had 
so long nourished her hatred of Marina, that it 
was only a short step to crime. Seeing how 
lonely and unprotected Marina remained, she 
plotted to take her life. She instructed one of 
her servants, a low villain, to join her in one of 
her walks, and drawing her into some lonely 


THE ADVENTURES OF PERICLES. 263 


place, to kill her. The murderer obeyed her 
commands, and, tempting Marina to an unfre- 
quented place on the sea-shore, he was about to 
slay her, when she begged for a short respite. 
He gave her a few minutes in which to prepare 
for death, and the princess, going by herself, 
knelt upon the sand, lifting up her pure eyes 
and hands toward heaven in supplication. 

Now it happened that, as she knelt thus, some 
pirates prowling about for booty discovered her, 
and seizing upon her as a prize, bore her to their 
ship, which was anchored near by. They im- 
mediately set sail for Mitylene, and sold her 
there as a female slave. Here her skill in all 
womanly accomplishments proved a great source 
of good fortune to her. She was able to in- 
struct in needle-work, music, and various other 
branches, and she sang so exquisitely that her 
voice was noted through the whole city. Lysi- 
machus, the Governor of Mitylene, noticed the 
maiden, and desired that she should be kindly 
treated. 

After Marina was carried off by the pirates, 
the servant of Dionyza returned to his mistress 
and told her that he had obeyed her commands, 
and that Marina was dead. On this the wicked 
woman revealed to Cleon what she had done. 
He professed to be much shocked at it, and re- 
minded her how much cause they had to dread 


264 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

the anger of the citizens if this deed became 
known, since they had always cherished a grate- 
ful memory of Pericles for his services in their 
times of famine. But he felt no real sorrow for 
the deed, and readily joined with his wife in 
concealing what had been done. They agreed 
together to affect great grief, and to give out 
that Marina died suddenly from too muph sor- 
row at her nurse’s death. Then they gave her 
empty coffin pompous burial, and erected over 
her vacant tomb a magnificent marble pillar, on 
which was an inscription which told in fine words 
the beauty and worth of Marina. 

It now being near Marina’s fourteenth birth- 
day, Pericles, who had all this time been reign- 
ing quietly in Tyre, ever cherishing deep in his 
heart the memory of his lost queen, resolved to 
go to Tharsus to bring home his daughter, and 
make plans for seeing her worthily married. He 
took with him a number of his nobles, among 
the rest the aged Helicanus, who had always 
been his chief adviser and counselor. They 
reached Tharsus in the midst of the ceremonies 
which attended the funeral of Marina. When 
Pericles heard that his daughter was dead, 
whom he had not loved less because her re- 
semblance to her dead mother had made the 
sight of her impossible* till time had softened 
his anguish, he was completely heart-broken. 


THE ADVENTURES OF PERICLES. 265 


He only remained long enough to listen to the 
fictitious story which Dionyza told him of her 
death, and then immediately took to his ships. 

Scarcely caring whither he went, he allowed 
the ship to sail without question, until, by some 
wonderful fortune, they anchored in Mitylene, 
where Marina now dwelt. As soon as they 
were in harbor, Lysimachus, the Governor, who 
was a young and gallant gentleman, came on 
board the ship of Pericles to see the stranger 
who had thus unexpectedly arrived at their city. 
Pericles lay in his cabin, prone upon his face. 
His hair and beard, which had been uncut for 
fourteen years, streamed about his person, and 
made him look like a wild beast in his lair. Ly- 
simachus approached him and endeavored to talk 
with him, to find out the motives for his visit to 
Mitylene, but he would not open his lips. After 
spending some time in vain endeavor to draw 
him from his apathy, Lysimachus remembered 
the wonderful voice of Marina, and the charm 
which it had to draw the wretched from the con- 
templation of their miseries, and he asked Heli- 
canus, who now informed him of the name and 
rank of his master, if the maid might not be sent 
to try her skill upon the King. 

Marina was sitting in a shady grove near the 
city, surrounded by a group of young girls, to 
some of whom she was teaching music, and in- 


266 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY, 
structing others in singing; and embroidery, 

O C_5 o 7 

when the messengers of the Governor came for 
her. She hastened to go with them, and was 
soon led into the presence of Pericles. At first 
the sight of this wild-looking man, who lay 
stretched upon his face on a rude pallet, filled 
her with awe and dread ; but very soon sum- 
moning courage, she commenced to sing a sooth- 
ing melody. 

He gave no sign that he heard. At length, 
growing more bold, she came near him and ven- 
tured to lay her hand upon his shoulder. She 
begged him to consider if he were not wrong in 
so giving way to grief, since there were others 
whose misfortunes had perhaps been as great as 
his, who did not so accuse Heaven in yielding to 
them. She told him that she, young as she was, 
had much cause to be sad, for by right she was 
a princess, whose father was a powerful king; 
that she had been born upon the sea, where her 
mother had died in giving her birth, and that 
her childhood had never known a father’s or a 
mother’s love. 

At her words, Pericles lifted up his face and 
beheld something in her features and the expres- 
sion of her countenance which held his gaze en- 
tranced. He asked eagerly her name and the 
story of her birth. When she told him she was 
called Marina, and commenced relating her his- 


THE ADVENTURES OF PERICLES. 267 

tory from infancy, Pericles became so filled with 
joy that he could hardly restrain himself to hear 
her adventures. He arose from his couch, . and, 
taking her to his breast, he wept over her, till, 
wearied with his emotions, he fell into a deep 
slumber. 

While he slept, the goddess Diana appeared to 
him in a shining vision, and directed him to pro- 
ceed immediately to Ephesus with his new-found 
daughter, and there, upon his knees before her 
shrine, declare in a loud voice his name and his 
adventures. When he awoke, the impression of 
the dream was so strong upon him that he did 
not hesitate to obey it. 

Before he set out for Ephesus, the young 
Governor, Lysimachus, sought the Prince, and 
asked of him in marriage the hand of his daugh- 
ter Marina. He told Pericles that he had loved 
the maid since she first came to Mitylene, and he 
thought she had looked on him with favorable 
eyes. On being questioned, Marina avowed her- 
self nowise averse to the handsome Lysimachus, 
and they were betrothed before setting out for 
Ephesus. 

On their arrival at the temple of Diana, they 
found the building filled with a great crowd of 
people, who were in attendance at a festival in 
honor of the goddess. Among the citizens pres- 
ent was Cerimon, with a large train of attend- 


268 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

ants. Unabashed by the great number of spec- 
tators, Pericles knelt before the grand altar or 
Diana, and in a loud voice commenced relating 
all his adventures, — his shipwreck at Pentapolis, 
his marriage with Thaisa, her loss at sea, and the 
story of his daughter’s ill treatment from Dio- 
nyza. 

While he was speaking the priestesses were 
listening, when suddenly the beautiful Thaisa 
gave a loud cry, and coming forward, threw her- 
self upon the neck of Pericles. She learned for 
the first time, that she had a living husband and 
daughter, and he now found again the wife he 
thought to be dead. As soon as all had a lit- 
tle recovered from their first wonder, Thaisa 
told her story, which was confirmed by the 
learned Cerimon, and with tears of great joy 
Pericles folded his wife and daughter in one em- 
brace. 

As soon as they could make ready, the happy 
party set sail for Tyre. On their way thither 
they stopped at Pentapolis, and found the good 
King Simonides just expiring. He left his 
kingdom to Pericles, who placed on the throne 
his son-in-law and daughter, and left them to 
reign together. He also gave great privileges 
to the fishermen on that coast, in grateful mem- 
ory of the favors he had received from them. 
Leaving Pentapolis, he went to Tharsus. Here 


THE ADVENTURES OF PERICLES. 269 


he informed the citizens of the wrongs his 
daughter had suffered at the hands of Dionyza 
and Cleon, and the enraged populace took the 
lives of the guilty couple. The city was given 
into the hands of Pericles, who left the faithful 
Helicanus as its ruler and governor. 

Then Pericles and his Queen went on to 
Tyre, where they reigned long years in won- 
drous happiness and peace. She bore him a son, 
who was afterward the Prince of Tyre, and at a 
very ripe age Pericles and Thaisa died, and their 
ashes were placed in one sepulchre. 



THE TEMPEST. 


(FROM SHAKESPEARE.) 

/~\NCE upon a time there lived upon an island, 
far off in Southern seas, a wonderful wise 
magician, with one only daughter. The island 
was far away from all inhabited lands, and no 
human being had ever set foot on its shores, till 
the magician came there. But it had been the 
abode of genii and fairies, and all kinds of elfin 
creatures, ever since it first rose from the bosom 
of the green sea. It was an isle of more than 
earthly beauty. All sorts of plants and flowers 
grew there from spring to winter, and from 
winter to spring again. Groves of palms and 
orange-trees, of willows and of oaks, grew side 
by side, and the island blossomed with color and 
beauty such as eye never beheld in any other 
spot. 

Here the great magician Prospero lived and 
reigned over myriads of subjects, — not human 
subjects, but all the creatures of the elements, — 
the fairies of the earth, air, and water, of which 
the isle was full. Prospero had not always been 


THE TEMPEST. 


271 


king over such an unreal kingdom as this seems 
to us. Not many years before, when his daugh- 
ter Miranda, who was now a lovely young 
maiden, was an infant of two or three years, he 
had been ruler over a powerful realm, — nothing 
less than the Duchy of Milan. But though he 
was a good prince, and loved his people very 
dearly, he was too fond of the study of magic, 
and all sorts of occult arts and sciences. He 
thought, meanwhile, that his kingdom was taken 
good care of, for he trusted all his affairs in the 
hands of his only brother, whom he believed a 
good and loyal minister of his will. One would 
have imagined that Prospero’s inquiries into all 
the mysteries of magic might have taught him 
how to read the designs of men, but it seems 
they did not ; for while he was deep in his books, 
and suspected no harm, this bad brother Antonio 
took possession of his throne, seized Prospero and 
the little Princess Miranda, thrust them" into a 
leaky boat, and pushed them off into the wide 
ocean, all alone by themselves. 

But it sometimes happens that the winds and 
waves, and all the great forces of Nature, though 
they seem so pitiless, are more kind than men. 
It proved so in this case, for the waves gently 
tossed, and the winds blew them on, to the shores 
of this enchanted island, where Prospero dwelt 
when the story commences. 


272 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

When they first landed on the island, Prospero 
heard issuing from the forest which skirted the 
shores, wailings and lamentations, which seemed 
to be uttered by some human creature. He en- 
tered the wood, and, guided by these cries, came 
at length to a tali pine, and there in the heart of 
a living tree, with only the head and shoulders 
visible, he found imprisoned the body of an ex- 
quisite creature, evidently some delicate fairy* of 
the air. He was firmly wedged in the very 
middle of the trunk of this huge tree, which had 
grown around and bound him constantly tighter 
and tighter in its tough, woody fibres. Prospero 
stopped and conjured him to tell his name, and 
why he was thus horribly tortured. 

On this the spirit ceased his cries, and told the 
Duke that his name was Ariel, that he belonged 
to a race of fairies of the air, and that he was 
thus imprisoned in the entrails of this pine by 
the power of a vile witch named Sy corax, who 
had for a time possessed and governed the island. 
He told Prospero also that the island was now 
inhabited by the son of this frightful hag, — a 
vicious monster, whose name was Caliban, — and 
that this cruel wretch now occasionally visited 
his prison to punish and torment him in addition 
to his present tortures. 

When Prospero heard this story, he exacted 
a solemn vow from Ariel that he would serve 


THE TEMPEST. 


273 


him faithfully as servant and subject if he were 
once set free from the pine. Prospero exacted 
this promise because he knew that, as fairies had 
no souls, he could not depend on his gratitude. 
When Ariel took this vow, and called on all that 
fairies hold most sacred to witness his oath, Pros- 
pero uttered some fearful conjuration, and in an 
instant Ariel spread his sparkling wings in the 
sunshine and hovered over their heads. He 
then took carefully in his arms the little Princess 
Miranda, and floating through the air as lightly 
as the down of a thistle, conducted Prospero to 
a cave in a huge rock, where he could find com- 
fortable shelter. 

In this rocky cave the magician made his 
home. He furnished it with all comforts and 
necessaries, and even had in it a luxurious grotto 
for the chamber of the little princess, which, 
by the means of magic, he furnished with more 
than royal splendor. Here his delicate Ariel 
served him faithfully, and here the young Mi- 
randa grew daily in the rarest grace and beauty. 
The monster Caliban, whom no kindness could 
tame, Prospero kept to do all rude offices for 
him, the hewing of wood and drawing of water 
for the little household ; and the monster, not 
daring to disobey his commands, growled and 
cursed while he did his great master’s bidding. 

So they lived till the time when Miranda was 
18 


274 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

about sixteen. So beautiful a creature as this 
young daughter of Prospero had rarely been 
seen. Bred among the enchantments of this 
island, her own rich loveliness was nourished by 
wonders, till she seemed more like a spirit than 
a mortal. Her father, too, had taught her much 
strange and curious learning, so that she was 
wise in things foreign to her sex and years. She 
had seen no faces which resembled the human, 
except those of her father, and his servants Ariel 
and Caliban. Unaware of her rank as princess, 
or of the loss of worldly power which her father 
had suffered in her infancy, she was quite happy 
in his little kingdom, and regarded him as the 
most potent of earthly princes. 

While things were in this condition on the 
island, a large fleet appeared with spread sails, 
which looked in the far distance like a flock of 
tiny 'white birds spreading their wings against the 
blue sky. This fleet belonged to Alonzo, King 
of Naples, who had just married his only daugh- 
ter to an African prince, and having escorted her 
to the abode of her husband in Tunis, was now 
returning home after the marriage festivities. 
The duchy of Milan was tributary or subject to 
the kingdom of Naples, and all the principal 
lords of that kingdom were on board the fleet, 
Antonio, Prospero’s bad brother, among the rest. 
King Alonzo had also with him his son Fer- 


THE TEMPEST. 


275 


dinand, heir to the crown of Naples, and his 
brother Sebastian, besides many other noblemen 
of Naples and Milan. All these nobles, dukes, 
and princes were on board the King’s vessel, 
which headed the fleet. 

Prospero had for some time known of the ap- 
proach of this fleet, and had divined what per- 
sons were on board, and at what moment the 
King’s ship would sail near the island. When 
this moment arrived he sent Ariel to intercept 
the King’s ship, and to separate it from the 
other vessels. 

Ariel did his work well and faithfully, like a 
true creature of the elements to which he be- 
longed. He made the whole atmosphere around 
the ship glitter with flames and flash with light- 
ning. Here, there, and everywhere, he flamed 
in the eyes of the astonished crew. Upon the 
mast, the bows, and in the vessel’s track he sat 
aflame, so that the air and water seemed to 
vomit fires. The sailors, struck with fear, could 
hardly work the ship, which Ariel all the time 
drew closer and closer to the shores of the island. 
At length the lords, the young prince, and the 
King himself, leaped into the foaming sea, and 
all swam to the shore in safety. 

Ariel plunged the sailors into a deep sleep, and 
left them securely fastened under the hatches on 
the vessel. Then he managed cunningly to sep- 


276 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 


arate into small groups those who swam to land, 
so that each party supposed the others lost. In 
one part of the island he drew some of the’ lower 
officers of the ship’s crew ; in another sheltered 
portion of the shores were placed the King 
Alonzo, Duke Antonio, Sebastian the King’s 
brother, and some other nobles ; and by some 
strange music, that had enchantment in it, he 
led the son of the King, Prince Ferdinand, to the 
entrance of the cave, where Prospero awaited 
him. 

Ferdinand was amazed at this wondrous sweet 
music, which seemed to float over his head, and 
although he was grieving for the loss of his father 
and all his friends, whom he thought dead, he 
could not help listening to and admiring this 
sweet song : — 

“ Come unto these yellow sands, 

And then take hands: 

Court’sied when you have and kissed 
The wild waves whist, 

. Foot it featly here and there; 

And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. 

Burden. — Hark, hark ! 

Bowr, wow! 

The watch -dogs bark. 

Bow, wow ! 

Ariel. — Hark, hark ! I hear 

The strain of strutting chanticleer 
Cry, Cock a doodle doo ! ” 

As Ariel ended, Ferdinand looked up and met 
the eyes of the loveliest maiden he had ever 


THE TEMPEST. 


277 


gazed on. Since everything seemed to be en- 
chanted in this place, he thought she must be the 
goddess of the isle. He spoke to her thus, but 
she told him that she was no goddess, only a sim- 
ple maiden, and as mortal as himself. And as 
she had never seen any human shape before save 
that of her father and his two servants, the hand- 
some young prince seemed to her something 
almost supernatural, and like a hero of romance. 
Thus it happened, that from the first moment 
they looked into each other’s eyes they loved 
each other. 

Although it was a part of Prospero’s plans that 
these two should love, yet he did not desire that 
his daughter should be too easily won ; so at this 
moment he advanced and claimed Ferdinand as 
his prisoner. The prince tried to resist, and was 
about to draw his sword at being so rudely at- 
tacked, when his arm was instantly made power- 
less by the force of magic, and he was obliged to 
yield. He followed Prospero into his cave, and 
in spite of Miranda’s tears and entreaties, was 
treated as a captive. Prospero, affecting the 
manner of a severe master, set him to the task 
of removing some heavy logs, and piling them 
up near the grotto. 

During all this time King Alonzo, Antonio, 
Sebastian, and the rest, were in another part of 
the island. They, too, heard all sorts of strange 


278 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

noises, and saw all kinds of strange sights. Fa- 
tigued with all their escapes and adventures, 
Alonzo and some of the others lay down upon 
the ground to sleep, leaving only Antonio and 
Sebastian awake. Now Antonio was one of 
those bad men who are not satisfied with their 
own wickedness and the fruits of it, but wish to 
tempt others to bad deeds. As they watched 
there together, he began to say to Sebastian, 
that since Ferdinand was drowned, he, the 
brother of the King, was the next heir to the 
throne. Then he went on skillfully to hint that 
if Alonzo were dead, Sebastian might now as- 
cend the throne. Sebastian listened till his 
avarice and ambition were aroused, and he had 
drawn his sword and was about to kill the King, 
when Ariel, who was always on the alert, came 
in to interrupt the plan, aroused the sleeping 
lords, and so saved Alonzo. The wicked proj- 
ect of the two conspirators was thus defeated. 
Then they all rose up and went together to see 
if they could find any sign of human habitation. 

Caliban had been sent oif by Prospero to 
gather fagots to burn, and on his way met two 
common fellows belonging to the ship, who had 
managed to get to shore with a bottle of liquor 
from the wreck, and were already half drunk 
with what they had taken. Caliban had never 
seen man except Prospero, and supposing all 


THE TEMPEST. 


279 


human beings to be equally powerful, he paid 
them great respect. Stephano, the one who had 
possession of the bottle, generously gave the 
monster a drink, and the fumes of the liquor, 
rising straight to Caliban’s brain, made him 
partly intoxicated. The stupid monster then 
concluded that the man who owned so potent a 
beverage must be even more powerful than his 
master, and he proposed to them to aid him in a 
plot to assassinate Prospero, that they might be- 
come owners of the island, which he described as 
abounding in all sorts of natural wealth. Ste- 
phano and his companion, Trinculo, readily en- 
tered into the plan, and they all journeyed back 
to the cave, to get possession of Prospero’s magic 
books and robes, and then to murder him. 

When evening came on, all Prospero’s plans 
were working famously. Ferdinand had told 
the story of his parentage and rank to Prospero, 
had besought him that he might have Miranda 
for his wife, and the old Duke had graciously 
given his blessing to their love. Alonzo, Sebas- 
tian, and Antonio were now close by, in a grove 
near the entrance of the cave. The drunken 
fellows and Caliban, whose designs Ariel had 
overheard and betrayed to his master, were be- 
ing well pinched and tortured by spirits of the 
air, whom Prospero set on to harass them. 

As the King and his followers drew close to 


280 STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY. 

the cave, Prospero suddenly revealed himself to 
their astonished eyes, and accused Antonio of 
his crime in stealing the kingdom. He also re- 
proached the King of Naples for having counte- 
nanced his brother in defrauding him of V his 
duchy. Alonzo was overcome with grief and 
remorse, especially as he was ready to consider 
the loss of his son as a punishment for his mis- 
deeds. 

While he stood in grief, Prospero drew aside 
a curtain, and showed Ferdinand and Miranda 
playing chess together. They were a lovely 
sight, the handsome prince and young maid, as 
they sat there, wholly wrapt in contemplation of 
each other, and unconscious of the party who 
were gazing on them. 

But when the Prince and King recognized 
each other, you can imagine the joy of the meet- 
ing. Everything was explained ; the King gave 
his consent to the marriage of the young lovers, 
while Antonio, unable to resist the just demands 
of his powerful brother, yielded him back his 
dukedom, and pretended to be penitent. 

Prospero nobly forgave all injuries, and giving 
the dainty Ariel his liberty from that time forth, 
he embarked upon the King’s ship, which lay 
peacefully in the harbor, and they all set sail for 
Naples, where Ferdinand and Miranda were 
speedily united in marriage. Prospero was 


THE TEMPEST. 


281 


again placed on the throne of Milan, and the 
enchanted island has never since known human 
inhabitant, but remains lonely and beautiful in 
the midst of the sea. 




705 








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